


Falling Into the Sky

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Romance, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2003-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Quest - Sex of various sorts, including first time (this is SLASH please note)</p><p>Romance - angst (R)</p><p>Frodo introduces Sam to the joys of falling into the sky from a certain hill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Hangover

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

* * * * * * *  
When exactly had Samwise Gamgee grown up? When had the delightful young voice singing in the garden deepened to this low melodious timbre humming something now just outside his window? When had the familiar soft childish features been sculpted into this bronzed and mature countenance that glistened with sweat in the morning sun? And when had the slender shoulders of the youngster broadened into this muscled expanse that rippled beneath damp clinging muslin?

The water that splashed over his neck did not seem the least bit icy, as he knew it should on this spring morning. He could swear that it sizzled on his skin, to little effect. Perhaps he could try a quick dip in the Water before breakfast.

“Frodo, I am beginning to worry about you.”

With a startled intake of breath, Frodo nearly dropped the pitcher he had lifted to pour more water into the bowl. He swivelled anxiously and almost gasped with relief when he realized it was not the object of his rather steamy thoughts standing in the doorway.

Bilbo looked meaningfully at the tangle of sheets on his young cousin’s bed, the sweat-soaked nightshirt and the damp dishevelled hair of said young cousin, and frowned.

“Have you taken ill, lad?”

Frodo’s gaze flew to the bed, hoping there was no sign of the result of his fevered dreams for Bilbo to chuckle over. It was bad enough to be forced to hide the evidence of his prurience from the laundress, but Bilbo was no fool. There were times when Frodo thought the older hobbit could actually see through walls or read thoughts, but at this point he did not need any good-natured ribbing about this particular dilemma.

“Frodo?” Bilbo walked toward him and Frodo turned quickly back to pour the water into the basin, looking down and hoping Bilbo hadn’t seen more evidence for humorous speculation in the obvious state of his rebellious body. He took a deep shaky breath as he leaned to set the pitcher back on the bottom of the stand.

“No sir, just too much wine after supper last night, I think,” he quickly dissembled.

“Indeed.” Bilbo was hovering at his elbow. “I heard you up prowling about. Did you cart a bottle of old Winyards up on the hill and fall into the sky again?” There was an indulgent smile on the older hobbit’s face. Bilbo had always given Frodo the space that he coveted to be and to do pretty much as he pleased, but he still fussed over his young cousin at times like a broody mother hen.

And what would Bilbo think if he could read thoughts? Frodo wondered, for only the briefest of moments, if he should seek Bilbo’s counsel on this situation.

Oh, yes. That would be a delightful conversation. With Sam not even a tweenager and he himself coming of age next year. The issue of class differences had already made the youngest Gamgee miserable. The Gaffer had made it clear how he felt about Sam’s relationship with someone who was so far above Sam's station and Sam's sisters, well, they took every opportunity to tease and torment him about aspiring to befriend the heir to Bag End. And he knew that his own family would have things to say about a relationship with someone they saw only as a servant. Things he could not even think without a painful twinge. He grimaced, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. The headache that had been dogging him for days and nights was making itself known yet again.

“Yes, I suspected as much. Well, I’ll go make some of our remedy for too much of the Old Winyards, my boy. You just plan to take it easy today,” Bilbo gave him one last look and then padded out of the room, “You have to learn your limits, lad!” he said loudly as he went down the hall.

Frodo leaned on the washstand wearily. “Limits. Yes. Limits,” he muttered. “That’s a good word.”

What would Bilbo say? What could he say? He had stepped in to defend the friendship between the two, even encouraged it. But this? This might be beyond even Bilbo’s ability to accept. He would tell him to go take that icy dunk in the stream, or to go find a willing lass or lad of the right age and disposition, or -- better yet -- go off with him on yet another trip across the Shire.

It wasn’t that he didn’t treasure the wonderful times spent with his cousin in their beloved countryside, but of late, Bilbo’s agitated demeanour and almost manic behaviour had disrupted the leisurely pace they had so enjoyed.

Frodo knew Bilbo had heard him prowling around the smials last night because Bilbo himself had been up until all hours puttering about with maps in his study. It was worrisome: Bilbo referring constantly to one last grand journey to see the mountains again, dropping innumerable hints about Frodo not needing supervision any longer since he was nearly of age, staring off down the road with his hand in his waistcoat pocket, his eyes vacant and oblivious.

Frodo felt the headache slide from a twinge to a throb and wished, not for the first time, that he really had the excuse of having imbibed entirely too much of the Old Winyards. That melodious humming continued unabated under his window and he nearly groaned, pressing his hand to his chest reflexively.

Just when had Bag End's flaxen-haired gardener innocently planted the cool seed that had suddenly blossomed into exquisite flame beneath Frodo's breastbone? And when had Frodo allowed that aching fire to burn completely through the barriers of his own tenuously held tranquillity?

 

* * * * * * *  
TBC


	2. Chapter One - Cordial

*******  
Sponging off with ice cold water was not the best thing for a headache. By the time he had dressed and tugged his sheets into some semblance of order, the pain behind Frodo's eyes had overwhelmed any remaining afterglow from the heated dream that had awakened him. He sat now hunkered down at the table, watching Bilbo bustle about the kitchen through half-open eyes.

“There you go -- an old Baggins recipe that never fails lad,” Bilbo plunked a mug of something in front of him, smiling. “You need to remember how to make it yourself so that you,” he hesitated for a moment. “So you can make it for your own young scamps when they are tweens.”

“I'm not a tween anymore Bilbo,” Frodo frowned at the drink, wondering what it did if you really didn't have a hangover at all. He sipped at it tentatively and remembered the taste immediately, bitter but not impossible to stomach. Perhaps it would help the headache at least.

“Yes, well, all the more reason you need to know how to throw that concoction together. Now, I imagine your stomach can't handle much beyond toast and tea. But perhaps some coddled eggs, eh?” Bilbo slapped his hands together cheerily. He bustled off to throw together the proper bland meal as Frodo shut his eyes against the ever-brightening sunlight in the kitchen and nursed the bitter remedy.

“I can't imagine having children of my own,” he said, half to himself, thinking about what Bilbo had just said.

“Why not lad?” Bilbo asked matter-of-factly.

Frodo pinched the bridge of his nose then took another sip. “I don't know. I just don't see them.” Deciding to forego the slow torture, he gulped the rest of the brew down quickly. He nearly choked and ended up sputtering and coughing.

Bilbo came over, pounded Frodo’s back good-naturedly and handed him a handkerchief. “See them? See them where?”

Frodo managed to clear his throat after a moment and Bilbo wandered back to his eggs and the toast crisping by the fire.

Frodo rasped out, “I don't know. In my life. In my future.” He wiped his streaming eyes with the handkerchief and coughed. “Not my own children anyway.”

Startled, he wondered where that thought had come from. He suddenly had vague memories of a dream -- something about Sam's children. It was just on the edges of his consciousness, flitting around him like the dust motes floating in the sun slanting through the windows.

He glanced toward the fire and realized Bilbo was watching him with an odd expression on his face.

“That Old Winyards must have gone bad or something, Bilbo. I don't know what made me say that. “ He lowered his face into his hands and wished he had a bottle sitting to hand right now. Things just could not get any worse.

“Lad, you know what a good count I keep of my cellars,” Bilbo's voice was soft. Frodo heard the sound of a knife slowly scraping butter over toast. “I'll bet my store of Longbottom that you don't have a hangover. Now, what is all this about?”

Frodo groaned. Things could get worse.

“Frodo?” came the gentle query. There was the sound of crockery on wood in front of him and the almost overwhelming smell of eggs and butter and toast and tea.

His stomach roiled. Even if he could bring himself to divulge anything to Bilbo, where to begin?

He heard a chair scrape across the floor and Bilbo's soft grunt as he settled into it across the table from him. “There’s only one thing I know of that can mimic the symptoms of a good Old Winyards hangover. Is it a lass, or a lad?”

Frodo lifted his head, “Sir?” he managed weakly, blinking in the sun.

“I suspect a lad, based on that comment about not seeing children in your life.”

“Sir?” Frodo sat up straight, gaping. He was now certain that Bilbo could see through walls and read minds, and who knew what else?

Bilbo blinked back at him, uncertain for a moment, then smiled knowingly. “A lad,” he stated and proceeded to spoon sugar into his tea.

Frodo started to say “Sir?” once more, then realized he was beginning to sound a trifle unbalanced and clamped his mouth shut.

Bilbo laughed. “A lad! And, my boy, by the look of things you are quite thoroughly besotted! Come now, confession is good for the head and the stomach.”

Bilbo looked delighted with himself. His cheeks were glowing and his eyes twinkling. Frodo realized yet again that his older cousin was indeed a quite handsome scamp and the picture of health for a hobbit half his age. And that reminded him of something else -- a nagging question that had been in amongst the various dragons grumbling in his skull of late. Bilbo had had no children of his own. They had never really talked about it, other than jokingly.

“ Bilbo, about children, how do you... I mean, how does it feel not to...” He shook his head, then regretted it at the sudden twinge behind his eyes. “I am asking this all wrong.”

Bilbo waved his spoon in the air. “We had this talk about babes and all, didn't we lad? I know we did. And as I recall, you were quite well versed on the topic and would have none of an old hobbit's advice.”

“No, I don't mean that. I mean.” Frodo stared dejectedly at his plate, unable even to blush over that old memory. “Oh, I don't know what I mean.”

Bilbo's smile faded as he tilted his head to study his cousin's downcast face, “Forgive me, my boy. I was being evasive. Not fair considering I started this, eh? I think I know what you mean after all. And we can start there as well as anywhere.”

Frodo looked up at the slight change of tone in Bilbo's voice to see Bilbo take a sip of tea and gaze out the window. Frodo couldn’t see the view out that window from his chair, but he didn't need to. He knew what his cousin was gazing at, winding away into the hills in the morning sun.

“You know, Frodo, I wonder myself. How the slow creep of years catches us up and spins us around and leaves us sitting by the side of the road, wondering about that fork back there we didn't take.”

Frodo didn't dare to breathe.

“And here you are standing at that fork yourself, wondering which road to take, knowing the choices are likely irrevocable; knowing no matter what you do, you give up something to gain something else, you sacrifice something, or someone -- some future that would have been.”

Bilbo took a sip of his tea, his eyes never leaving the road. “Every choice we make changes something that will never be the same again, moves us further from that crossroads.” Bilbo was quiet for a long moment. Frodo didn't move, afraid to break the fragile mood, whatever it was, wherever it was leading them.

“I never really thought about not having a family. I just never thought about having one.” Bilbo took another sip of tea. “You know, my boy, before Gandalf came and roused the Took in me and hied me off on my first adventure, I think I was asleep and dreaming for the most part. I didn't think of myself as the adventuresome sort at all, but I loved books and tales of adventures. And I often dreamed of things -- strange things -- things far beyond the borders of the Shire. All my reading and tramping about and studying maps was no more than that Took part of me, pulling at the traces of the respectable Baggins part.” Bilbo looked up and out the window once more, “I think I was always looking for something that was beyond those borders, but I never dared to step over them until Gandalf stirred things up.”

Frodo took a quiet sip of his own tea and waited.

“Despite all that respectability, I was still a Took. And, even more, I was a bit odd, what with these travelling feet of mine. I wasn't focused on the important things, the stewardship of the land or the breeding of livestock or the harvesting of the crops. And so, I was not the most eligible of bachelors in the eyes of many of the lasses. Not that there weren't a few who caught my eye. But a lady with a mind that interested me, wouldn't be interested in me,” Bilbo smiled grimly.

“I couldn't live with someone -- raise a family, love or even like someone -- who didn't have a mind, Frodo. A mind to love the things I loved, or at the least to understand them. How could I live with someone who wasn't the slightest bit interested in books, or languages, or lore? How could I do that to her? To myself?” He hesitated, then said softly, “How could I do that to our children?”

There was a long moment during which the only sound was Sam singing to himself as he worked somewhere on the hill, with a nameless bird keeping a ragged counterpoint. “At the least, boy, you have to have something in common with a lass you intend to create a family with. Even if there is no love, there needs to be -- something.”

“So, before I knew it, I was changed irrevocably and completely into someone not at all respectable with a passion for things far beyond the ken of most of my kind. And I wasn't a father and had no real prospects of being one, nor, truth be told, an overwhelming desire to be one.”

Frodo shut his eyes painfully, vaguely remembering Sam surrounded by toffee-haired children in a fading dream.

“Lad.”

He suddenly felt fingers touch his where they were clasped over his cup and his eyes flew open to find Bilbo gazing at him.

“You know I have never endeavoured to be your father. I would never attempt that. We've talked about that before.”

Frodo lifted one hand and pressed it over Bilbo's. “No, it's not that, Bilbo. But, I wondered. How does it feel, not having children of your own? Do you think that someone would miss not having them...?”

“In his life? Underfoot? Climbing the trees and hanging off the roof? Creating loads of wash? Emptying the larder and his pockets? Making him laugh so hard that he can't imagine life without them?” Bilbo reached over and touched Frodo's face. “Making him hurt so deeply he thinks he will never love again?”

Frodo looked back down at his teacup and the cold eggs and toast. He felt as if a huge chasm had opened in his own chest and he was teetering on the edge of it.

Bilbo's chair scraped back and the plate suddenly disappeared. “I think I have just the thing for this discussion my boy, although I may regret it later. Now, to answer your question,” he bustled about, retrieving a bottle and two glasses. “No. And yes. And don't repeat that overused quote about asking the elves for counsel!”

Frodo smiled.

“Yes, there are times when I have watched Paladin and Eglantine and their brood or even the Gamgees, and wished. Well, wished I could have that thing they have -- that great, warm chaotic thing that is a family in full bloom. But then there are times when I realize that was not my role, not the part I was to play in this world. That was the other road. I took this one.”

Bilbo went silent for a moment and Frodo tilted his head to catch the words that Sam was singing somewhere up on the hill. He heard two glasses hit the table and the sound of something being poured into them, but that voice had distracted him yet again. That voice sounded as if there were no choices that needed to be made on this glorious day. Nothing could, nothing would ever dampen Samwise Gamgee's outlook on life. Even confronted with the most impossible choice, Frodo knew that Sam would make it and never look back, assuming that everything would work out for the best.

He heard Bilbo sink into his chair again and looked at the rather large glass of ruby-coloured liquid in front of him. “Drink up lad. Not every day you get to sip on my special strawberry cordial before noon!”

Frodo took a sip and coughed. It was probably a good thing that he had already taken the hangover recipe.

“So. You are worried that you may never marry and have a family because the one you love is a he and not a she, eh?”

Frodo was certainly glad he had already swallowed. He eyed Bilbo warily and quickly took another very large gulp before he sat down the glass. The cordial burned its way down his throat and created a pleasant warmth in his stomach.

“No, that's not it.” Bilbo went on after peering at Frodo's face. “Is it, lad?”

“Some people just,” Frodo paused, unable to find the words. “It just seems as if they wouldn't be complete without a family,” he managed. His voice sounded rusty to his ears.

“Some people. Not you.”

Frodo shook his head slowly. The cordial seemed to have done its work and taken the edge off the dull pain behind his eyes.

“You don't see children in your future, but you see them in his,” Bilbo stated.

Frodo was beyond being amazed at Bilbo's perceptiveness, but he wasn't beyond gaping at him.

“Take another sip, Frodo lad. And no, I don't read minds. See through walls, yes. Read minds, no,” Bilbo laughed. “However, this is all very familiar territory for me.”

Frodo was very aware that the melodious song had moved down the hill and was now nearby, somewhere in the kitchen garden. Something tingling and unbearable made itself known under his breastbone in counterpoint to the warm glow of the cordial in his gut. His hand clenched on the table and he bent his head over that aching warmth.

“Did you ever love someone Bilbo?” he whispered.

There was no response. He lifted his eyes and found Bilbo gazing at him. He had never seen quite that look on the old hobbit's face before.

“Yes,” Bilbo said softly. “I believe you could say I loved, Frodo. Actually more than one 'someone', as you put it.”

“I mean love...not...not...”

“Heavens, lad! What you must think of your old cousin! I hope you know that I have had a passionate tumble with many more than that.”

Frodo felt heat rise into his face at the picture of Bilbo that suddenly rose into his head. He hid it in another gulp of the cordial. Bilbo's mouth quirked with a smile.

“And you. You have had, if my eyes and ears don't deceive me, a few tumbles of your own.” Bilbo raised his hand to stifle the protest that rose to Frodo's lips. “I know you have never brought any one to Bag End. I suspect, knowing you, that would say something about the relationship that you haven't been ready to say, yet. Something about bringing them under your own roof into your own bed that makes it different. Eh, lad?”

Frodo gazed into his nearly empty glass, feeling suddenly totally exposed.

“But they were all just friendly romps, or adolescent explorations. This one, this one is different. This one you haven't tumbled. This one.” Bilbo’s face took on a distant look. “You are afraid if you even breathe wrong, you will lose this one. You are afraid you already have. And you fear that the demands of kith and kin will keep you apart.”

Bilbo was quiet for a long moment, as if remembering. “You fear that he doesn't love you in return.” Frodo looked up to see Bilbo take a substantial swig of his own cordial, “And you fear that he does.”

Suddenly painfully aware, Frodo wondered just who was the lad in the distant past that caused that unbearably tender look on Bilbo's face.

“You must love him a great deal if you are worried that you might take away his chance to have his own brood to ride on his shoulders and fill his pipe someday.” Bilbo refilled Frodo's glass and topped off his own.

“Yes,” Frodo whispered, closing his eyes. He realized it was the first time he had affirmed it aloud. The first time he had affirmed it at all. And he took another gulp of the cordial, feeling something suddenly spiral to life within him -- something dazzling and overwhelming.

“It is complicated if it is a lad, I can't deny that. There are the demands of family. The demand for more babes to inherit that land and more hands to care for that livestock and pick those crops.” Bilbo went on, “As true a love as you may ever hold for a lad, only a lass can create a legacy for you.”

Frodo was having trouble focusing, between the effect of the cordial on an empty stomach, and the sudden whispered litany in his head: 'you love him -- you love him -- you love him'.  
  
“And it is even more complicated if it is someone the world perceives as beneath your station,” Bilbo said matter-of-factly.

Frodo nearly dropped his glass and some ruby liquid did slosh out of it as it thumped unceremoniously to the table.

For a moment there was no sound in the kitchen but that softly crooned song that was moving away from the window and heading in the direction of the garden shed. Frodo's eyes widened, but Bilbo wasn’t smiling. The look there was one of sympathy and understanding without a trace of humour.

Frodo took a quick gulp, ignoring the sticky liquid on his fingers until Bilbo handed him a napkin.

“Slow down just a tad there, my boy. I do want you to remember this conversation.” Bilbo did smile this time. “Even though I seem to be doing all the talking.”

Frodo knew that he was gaping at Bilbo numbly.

“I don't hold with drinking spirits this early in the morning, but I will donate a whole bottle to the cause if it chases the shadows from your eyes,” Bilbo went on, gazing into Frodo's face intently.

“Although I think the only person who can really chase the shadows from your eyes is out there planting strawberries at the moment.”

 

*******  
TBC


	3. Chapter Two - Dragons

*******

Luckily Bilbo had his hands on the table and caught both the bottle and the glass as Frodo half rose to his feet and jostled the table.

But Frodo couldn't seem to straighten himself to stand, so he sat back down heavily. “You knew.” It was more a croak than a question.

“I guessed, my boy. But don't worry,” Bilbo said softly, “I doubt anyone else has worked out this particular riddle.”

Frodo buried his face in his hands. He heard Bilbo move around the table, but couldn't bring himself to move as those two familiar hands rested on his shoulders. It was such a relief, for a moment he thought he might weep.

“Frodo, my dear boy,” Bilbo murmured soothingly. “You don't do anything by halves, do you?”

“He isn't,” there was suddenly an odd hitch in Frodo’s voice. Bilbo leaned over him and pushed the glass into his hand. He took another gulp, “He isn't even a tweenager, Bilbo.”

“And you are an ancient?” Bilbo laughed. “You aren't even of age yet yourself. And he becomes a tweenager... Why, Sam's birthday is tomorrow, isn't it? Is that what brought all this on?”

“He will still be too young tomorrow, and the next day, and,” the words tripped over each other as they poured out. “And he loves children. He needs to have at least a dozen or more,” he was barely taking a breath. “And his family would think he was overreaching himself. They already do. When we just go to the Dragon together or go on a hike or just spend time talking about books, they torment him about it. We can't even be friends. And my family would think...”

“What would they think?” Bilbo prompted when he stopped.

Frodo lifted his face out of his hands wearily. “They'd think that I was tumbling...a...” Frodo couldn't finish the sentence.

“Tumbling a servant? Well, you would be, wouldn't you?” Bilbo finished for him.

Frodo sat up stiffly and felt his face flame. “Sam will _never_ be just a servant. Not to me.”

“Not _just_ a servant, no. But he is a servant isn't he?” Bilbo said quietly.

Frodo twisted in his seat, pulling out of Bilbo’s hands, and stared at him in disbelief. “You think I would do that? Take advantage of _that_?”

“Of course not, Frodo!” Bilbo responded quickly. “But others will. No matter what you do. They will assume you are just having a bit of fun with the help.”

Frodo turned back to stare sightlessly at his glass. He had heard others joke about things like that, about some servants ‘taking care’ of all the needs of their master in order to retain a position, but he had never even considered that.

Sam had likely heard those stories as well.

“And Sam. Sam might think,” he whispered. He suddenly heard a whole new chorus of dragons roaring in his head. Surely, Sam wouldn’t think that. But what if he did?

What if Sam thought, even for a moment, that Frodo wanted to use him, like some plaything, some toy for his amusement? That Frodo expected him to provide that kind of 'service'?

He suddenly saw Sam’s face -- the confusion and the pain. His stomach churned. He closed his eyes against that excruciating image. He had to do something. He couldn't bear to hurt Sam that way. He had to stop this.

Frodo jerked up, away from Bilbo and spun, grabbing the back of a chair as the room wheeled and dipped suddenly. Although it made him dizzy, the strawberry cordial was not enough to overwhelm the sudden agony in his gut.

“This is impossible. I need to... I have to leave.” He found it suddenly hard to breathe.

Bilbo followed him, relentless. “Leave where? This room? Bag End? Hobbiton?”  
  
Frodo looked up. “Yes.”

“Where will you run to this time, Frodo?”

Frodo didn't even wince at that old memory. He felt as if he had just run across the entirety of the Shire. He could no longer breathe. He could no longer think. All he could see was Sam's gentle, trusting face -- betrayed, hurt, confused. “I can go to Brandy Hall or Great Smials. Somewhere that this won't hurt him. I cannot...”

Bilbo stretched out his hand and tapped two fingers on Frodo's chest. “Can you run from what is in there, my dear boy?”

Frodo looked dazedly at the fingers touching his chest then back up at Bilbo.

“I don't hear anything in all this of what you feel or think. I see it in your face, in your eyes, in the way you wander around the smials at night, barely sleeping, in the way you pick at your food. But you say nothing of what you feel. Are your feelings of no account here then?”

Frodo looked up at Bilbo's soft gaze and backed away, shaking his head weakly. He found himself against the wall of the kitchen, but Bilbo did not pursue him.

“Do you count for so little in this?” Bilbo asked softly.

“Yes...no. I... “ Suddenly Frodo's knees gave way and he slid down the wall to sit unceremoniously on the floor, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

He heard Bilbo walk to the fireplace and then walk back, matter-of-factly setting a stool on the floor next to Frodo then returning to retrieve the glasses.

Bilbo grunted as he lowered himself onto the stool, then held out Frodo's glass. “My bones are not what they used to be and I am not going to attempt to fold myself on to the floor. But I promise you my boy, I will not let you run away from this.”

Frodo lifted his eyes to look into the familiar blue-grey ones. “At least not alone,” Bilbo added, then smiled and took a sip from his glass.

Frodo took his glass wearily.

“Now.” Bilbo cleared his throat. “Let's revisit this, shall we? You love him?”

It was such a simple question -- just three words. But didn't Bilbo understand that until only a little while ago he hadn’t even recognized it himself?

Frodo nodded numbly.

“So much that you wouldn't tell him that you loved him if you thought it might hurt him?”

Frodo's eyes widened, but he nodded.

“However, not telling him is no longer an option, since what has become apparent to me will soon be apparent to others. If you don't tell him in words, not being a fool, he will figure it out soon enough for himself.” Bilbo went on. “Let's assume you do tell him. No matter what his response, you fear the worst. What happens if he rejects your feelings?”

Frodo looked down at the tile floor. “I would lose...my dearest friend,” he breathed.

“And you assume he would turn away from that relationship. Turn away from you.”

Frodo looked up, frowning.

“In that scenario, you would be hurt, not him, since obviously your friendship means very little to him if he can discard it so easily,” Bilbo went on, not waiting for a response. “So, Sam is not really hurt by that.”

Frodo felt a little dizzy trying to follow Bilbo's logic.

“And, if you tell him and he returns your feelings, what happens?”

Frodo felt his face grow hot and his hands go suddenly cold. Could he imagine Sam not turning away, not flinching with disgust or surprise or embarrassment -- Sam feeling the same way toward him?

Somewhere deep inside, stars shuddered dimly to life.

“Yes. Well then.” Bilbo took a sip of his cordial looking pointedly at Frodo's.

Frodo took a gulp of the cordial and gazed at the floor.

“So, we assume that perhaps things progress at that point on the more physical side.”

Frodo's eyes snapped back up. “He's too young.”

“When exactly will he be old enough?” Bilbo questioned solemnly.

Frodo suddenly realized that he didn't have a response.

“When he is twenty-two? Twenty-five? Twenty-eight?”

The choices were overwhelming.

“You think Sam has not yet had his first experience with a lad or a lass?”

Frodo's eyes widened. Was it possible? He had never dreamed that Sam might have...

“How old were you, lad?”

“Nineteen,” Frodo managed.

“Yes, nineteen.” Bilbo nodded, as if he had heard this before. “ And you don't really know if Sam has had any experience with anyone else, hmmm?”

Frodo suddenly realized he should know this. But Sam, his best friend, had never shared. Sam had never talked to him about that.

“But, if we assume that, for some reason, he has not, you think twenty is too young?”

Frodo nodded.

“But it wasn't too young for you?”

Frodo decided to take another sip of the cordial instead of attempting an answer. No, it hadn’t been too young for him. Why was he so certain it was too young for Sam? He felt those stars deep inside him stir and brighten.

“So who would think it too young?” Bilbo went on as if there was no answer forthcoming. “Not the Gaffer, for certain. The boy is far too grown up and serious for his age if you ask me. I suspect the Gaffer thinks him long past those tweener games, the way he treats him, the way he expects him to act.”

“This isn't a game,” Frodo retorted quickly.

“I didn't say it was. But I will place my bet on our Sam knowing more than you think he does about these things,” Bilbo ran his hand through his own greying hair. “Nothing is set in stone, boy. Some of us age slower; some grow up faster than others. You were late coming to your change. Sam was early, unless I miss my guess.”

“But he... He never... He hasn't...”

“Shared? Bragged as other lads do?” Bilbo peered into his face, “Could be that modesty, that diffidence the Gaffer practically ground into the boy. Could be something else. Could be he wouldn't talk to _you_ about it, for some reason.”

Frodo tried to focus on that. Sam avoiding discussions about his strange new desires and feelings with his best friend -- why?

Because he couldn’t tell the one who stirred up those very desires? Was that possible?

“And that unflagging disposition of his can make you ignore that canny and clever mind. The lad is not a child and has not been for a long time,” Bilbo went on.

“Of course he's not a child!” Frodo snapped.

Bilbo smiled, “Indeed! So, we have established that he is not too young.”

Frodo suddenly felt dizzy again. Was it the cordial, or the stars suddenly whirling beneath his breastbone at the faint possibility that Bilbo, with his convoluted logic, might be right?

“As to class and station, my boy, let's deal with our family. Do those you care for, those whose opinions you value, those who truly know you. Do you think that they will think that you are just ‘tumbling a servant’ or 'taking advantage of the help'?”

Frodo grimaced at the thought. “No,” he croaked dully.

“And as for the rest -- you and I have never cared a whit for what any of them think, and I believe, my boy, that we had an agreement that we would never do so. They don't approve of me. They will likely never approve of or understand you. We will relish it. We will take advantage of it.” He grinned. “But we will not worry about it. Let's not start now.”

Frodo nodded resignedly. He wasn’t as worried about what his family thought as what Sam might think.

“Good,” Bilbo seemed to be building up to a grand finish, as if he were telling a story. Frodo, on the other hand, felt exhausted.

“Now, the Gamgees. Have you noticed Sam paying very much attention to the Gaffer or to Daisy or the rest of his sisters when it comes to what they think is 'proper'? Really? Of course, he puts up a modicum of resistance to some things he sees as not meeting his Gaffer's definition of 'proper', but things are different when he sets his mind to something, whether it be learning to read or,” Bilbo's face softened, “deciding who he loves. Beneath that agreeable nature there is a creature of stone and steel who will fight to the death for what he wants -- what he loves -- no matter if it is proper or reasonable.”

Frodo blinked at him, how did he? When did Bilbo pay enough attention to realize all this about Sam? He always appeared so self-absorbed.

Bilbo reached out and touched Frodo’s shoulder. “And do you really think, lad, after knowing our Samwise as long as you have, after the kind of trust you have built between you, that he would even consider that you might take advantage of his station in this way?” he asked softly, “That creature of stone and steel would fight to the death for you I think. And I believe that he knows that you would do so for him as well. Do you doubt that trust? Do you think he would ever believe that you would betray him?”

Trust. He would not betray that trust. Sam knew him well enough to know he would never do that.

Could it be possible? Could Bilbo be right, or was it the cordial, making him feel that anything was possible?

“So we have established.” Bilbo leaned back and counted on his fingers. “That if he does not return your feelings, it only hurts you, not him. That he is not too young for this relationship between you. That we don't care what our family says and that he is capable of handling his family. And that he himself would not believe that you would take advantage of his station. That brings us to children, I think.”

Frodo winced and took a gulp of the cordial.

“You are afraid if you tell him how you feel, that somehow, as a result, he won't have a family, correct?”

Frodo managed a feeble nod.

“Why do you think that?”  
  
“I... Sam... I don't know. “

“Exactly, my lad. You don't know,” Bilbo stated firmly. “When do you think Sam will be ready to start a family?”

Frodo looked up blearily. “When he comes of age?”

“Perhaps. I doubt it, but perhaps. How long until then do you think? About thirteen years, eh?”

“Sir?”

“Since when have you reached out that far to plan your life?”

“But...”

“But, who knows what could happen between now and then? And who knows what a relationship will be like in that many years?”

“No!” Frodo said firmly, sitting up, his back scraping against the wall, “No, Bilbo, _this_ is not that simple. Sam is... Sam could not do that easily. He would be torn in two. That would not be fair to him.”

Bilbo looked searchingly at Frodo's face. “Do you think it is fair to make all these decisions for him?”

Frodo closed his eyes. “I have seen his children in my dreams, Bilbo. I would not destroy that future.”

“Again, how do you know that you will? How do you know what will happen? How do you know that he will not choose to have those wonderful children you have seen _and_ love you?” his voice was so soft that it was almost a whisper. “But you must give him that choice. If you love him, lad, you won't take away his choices.”

Frodo didn't realize he was crying until Bilbo reached out and touched his face gently. He opened his eyes.

“Don't make the mistake that I made, lad.” Bilbo offered the ever-present handkerchief. “Let those you love make their own choices.”

And Frodo suddenly knew Bilbo was right. He loved Sam. And Sam had the right to know that and to make his own choices. He met Bilbo's gaze, and managed a smile.

Bilbo smiled back as Frodo took the handkerchief and swiped at his face.

“Now, lad, that I have thoroughly ruined your breakfast and guaranteed a mid-day hangover, why don't I make you something to settle that stomach of yours?” Bilbo stood up and dusted off his hands.  
  
Frodo smiled at the gesture. Defeating the dragons inside Frodo's head, just another morning's work for the intrepid Bilbo Baggins.

He was suddenly aware that the constant soothing undercurrent of Sam's song had ceased at some point during their discussion. The only sound on the hill was the voice of the songbird, dissonant and rusty by comparison.

Frodo leaned his head back against the wall. He nurtured the dizzying surge of sensation that rushed through him when he realized he was going to tell Sam how he felt. It might only last as long as the cordial, but it was absolutely glorious nonetheless.

 

 

*******  
TBC


	4. Chapter Three - Ashes

  
*******  
Frodo woke sprawled on his bed feeling as if trolls had decided to play some perverse game with his head, despite Bilbo pre-emptively dosing him with hangover remedies and shooing him back into bed for the better part of the day. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the shutters, ricocheting around the room and splintering into cheerful little shards that lanced into his eyes. He lifted both his pillows and covered his head with a groan.

But he could still hear Bilbo humming merrily, moving about the smials. It sounded as if he was in the kitchen at the moment. Bilbo seemed disgustingly happy with himself, as if he had won some bet, or guessed some riddle that no one else could guess.

Frodo remembered, but it was difficult with all the pounding in his head, that Bilbo had said something this morning about how being in love felt like a hangover. Or was it that a hangover felt like being in love? This seemed essentially wrong somehow, but he couldn't focus well enough  
to...

“About time you were up, slug-a-bed!” Bilbo's cheerful voice preceded him into the room and was entirely too loud, at least in Frodo's opinion. Frodo peeked out from under the pillows with one eye and felt his stomach immediately rebel.

Bilbo was standing in his room with a full tray, grinning at him and wearing a waistcoat that was so bright it actually hurt Frodo to look at it. He sat the tray on the bedside table.

Frodo resigned himself. This was the punishment for falling in love with the Gaffer's youngest son. To have Bilbo Baggins repeatedly get him drunk and then sober him up, over and over.

“Don't worry, my boy, it is just tea -- nice weak tea -- and some nice bland biscuits and mild cheese to settle your stomach. And some more of this remedy that would have worked this morning, if we hadn't poured all that cordial on top of it.”

Frodo's eyes widened as his stomach lurched at the mention of cordial. He felt his skin go cold and clammy and he shut his eyes quickly. When things had settled once more, he carefully wormed his way into a sitting position with the pillows stuffed behind him, chanced opening one eye, and reached out for the mug that Bilbo proffered.

Bilbo managed a sympathetic grimace. “Give that a try and I'll be back to check on you in a bit. All right?”

Frodo nodded, but regretted the action immediately as his head throbbed and his stomach lurched. He took a quick gulp of the bitter remedy as he watched Bilbo leave. The humming began again somewhere just beyond his door.

After managing the entire mug of Bilbo's special cure, Frodo carefully consumed a few biscuits and a bite of cheese. He finally decided that he would not immediately die of the after effects of the cordial, but that he would never look at strawberries quite the same way again.

Sitting there in bed cradling a cup of tea, Frodo tried to summon up the feeling of exhilaration he had felt only hours before, and discovered, to his dismay, that the dragons had not really been vanquished, only temporarily addled. He desperately searched his memory for the precise logical path that Bilbo had led him down, but the effort made his head pound again. He had felt that wonderful feeling this morning, hadn't he? Or had it been the cordial? His stomach lurched.

Closing his eyes, he sank back into his pillows. Perhaps he should just stay in a constant state of inebriation until Sam was happily married and surrounded by toffee-haired children. Then he decided that he would just stay that way for the rest of his life. It couldn't possibly be that long. There might just be barely enough Old Winyards to see him through.

But that would mean a constant cycle of hangovers as well. He grimaced and decided that perhaps he could just hide out in Bag End for the rest of his life. If he could just somehow arrange it so that he just wouldn't see Sam, or hear him, or smell him, ever again. That would work.

Oh yes, that would work.

There was the sound of a cleared throat from the door. He risked a glimpse, knowing the sight of Bilbo's waistcoat might just cause a relapse.

Bilbo stood there looking at him with concern. “I was going to head off to The Ivy Bush for the evening, my boy, that is, if you think you will live?”

“Barely,” Frodo croaked.

Bilbo came in and pulled a chair up next to the bed, sitting down to peer at Frodo's face closely.

“Perhaps a nice hot bath would help. I filled the tub and heated water for you. Made sure the room was nice and warm. Nothing like a long sweaty soak to get all that out of your system,” he patted Frodo's hand affectionately.

Frodo realized that seeing Bilbo sitting there again plying him with food and hot baths reminded him of those many hours that Bilbo had spent in that very chair, fussing over him when he had been so ill all those years ago. Something twisted inside him when he realized how very much he cared for the old scamp and how much he dreaded the possibility that Bilbo might really take that last trip and leave him as Master of Bag End -- leave him alone.

Frodo closed his eyes and took another gulp of his tea, knowing Bilbo had no secret remedy for _this_ pain. He wanted to say it out loud. 'Don't leave me Bilbo. Don't leave.' And he wouldn't mean this evening at The Ivy Bush. And Bilbo would know what he did mean, and the brilliant smile would fade.  
  
Perhaps what he should say instead was 'Take me with you Bilbo. Let me come with you.'

No risk in that. Off down the road on an adventure. No one hurt. No one's heart broken. No ghosts of toffee-haired children wafting through his dreams.

No hummed and whistled and half-sung tunes outside his window. No golden head bent lovingly over pale green shoots in the rich black earth. No more 'What would you be wanting here in this bed this season Mister Frodo?' No more tales teased out of reluctant pages to coax an amazing smile from that mouth. No more shared hikes and campfires and songs. No more of the vital and rich smell of clean soil and blooming flowers and cut grass and -- Sam.

No more running. Running was not the answer this time. He did remember that from this morning. He couldn't run from this. He couldn't run from Sam.

“Or you could just take it easy and stay in bed. Curl up with a good book. It is going to be a lovely cool evening, I think,” came Bilbo's worried tones.

Frodo opened his eyes and found blue-grey ones focused on him anxiously. And suddenly he realized why Bilbo had plied that Baggins' wit so hard this morning. Why he had been at his silver-tongued best. And why he had been so cheerful all afternoon. Bilbo would no longer be leaving his young charge alone.

He would be leaving him Sam.

Frodo put his hand over Bilbo's soft wrinkled one on the sheet, but found there was suddenly a lump in his throat. For a moment, they simply sat, gazing at each other.

“A hot bath sounds absolutely wonderful, Bilbo,” Frodo managed. “I'll be fine. Really. You go and have a grand time.”

Bilbo looked at him a moment longer, then patted Frodo's hand and stood. “All right then, I'm off,” he said in a gruff voice.

He went to the door and turned back, “Don't hide in here, lad. You're a Baggins, you know. Have to go face the dragons.”

Frodo smiled weakly, “I know, Bilbo.”

Only the dragons weren't 'out there' somewhere.

They were all roaring inside his head in a painful chorus.

***

The bath was as steamy as Bilbo had promised. Bag End's bathing room was a real luxury. No dragging a tub into the kitchen as most inhabitants of Hobbiton did, if even that. No, Bag End had a proper room set aside just for bathing. Originally an interior storeroom, it nestled into the hill with a stone flag floor, a specially designed drain, a huge wooden tub, and a stove to heat the water. Bilbo had heated plenty, but Frodo set more to boil anyway, knowing his own inclination to sometimes stay in until his skin wrinkled up or until the water cooled and woke him.

Soap up first then soak, or soak, then soap up? Frodo chose the latter and slid gingerly into the too-hot water with a shudder. But his skin adjusted quickly and he sighed luxuriously and stretched out along the bottom with his head resting against his folded towel on the rim.

For long minutes he drifted in the water, eyes closed, letting the heat seep into his bones. The last of the dragons whimpered for a moment behind his eyes, then crawled off into the dark. He slitted his eyes open cautiously.

The room was dim, lit only with a few tapers and filled with steam. Wispy tendrils of steam lifted from the water in a sinuous dance. He sank in until only his eyes remained above it, his hair floating around him. Then he pushed off, floating.

Frodo still didn't know where Bilbo had managed to get this tub, but it was amazing. Long enough to practically swim in. He closed his eyes and flipped over on his stomach, letting himself sink to the bottom. One day Bilbo had found him like that and nearly fallen in the tub trying to pull him out.

Bilbo had given up understanding Frodo's relationship with water. Yes, water was the enemy. But every confrontation was a battle won. Frodo had learned how to swim only after learning not to eat anything at all for hours before. That way there was nothing to heave up when the tremors hit and shook him to the core. He had learned how to hold his breath, drifting along the bottom of the river, until stars danced behind his eyes or a panicked relative splashed in angrily to pull him to the surface. He had learned how to fight the current by giving into it, letting it tug him away, thinking it had won, then managing to twist agilely out of its grasp. He had learned how to grit his teeth against the memories every time he dove in. To thrust the anger and grief into lithe muscles that could beat water at its own game. He hated it, and loved it at the same time.

With a push and a pull from him, the water rolled him back and forth in a rhythmic pulsing wave. He wondered if that was what the sea was like, always pulsing with movement, with life. He had dreamed of the sea, even though he had never seen it or heard it or smelled it. He thought that the salty water must feel different sliding over your skin. And the stars must be even brighter when you lay floating on the surface of the sea far beyond any hope of land.

Frodo spun slowly over and floated on his back for a moment, eyes closed, imagining that lustrous sky shining down on him. It would be so full of stars that it would outshine the moon and spangle the calm waves below with brilliance beyond imagining. He could almost hear it, singing above him. Here, lying beneath the earth itself, he could hear that strange slow and stately song, almost inaudible, but felt inside.

It was a gentle quivering hum beneath his breastbone, like Sam's deep tones humming in the garden, vibrating under his heart. And Sam was like those stars shining down on that vast dark sea. Never wondering, just pouring that lustrous energy of his into everything he touched. Sam had always been there, shining brilliantly on him, transforming him into something he would not have become. Even when Sam was young --

_Still weak after taking ill with a fever right after he came to Bag End, Frodo had decided that the couch in the parlour, though vastly more interesting than his room, was not comfortable. He had resolved to walk back to his room unaided. A very stubborn and ill-advised move, but with walls and doorknobs as supports, he had made it, sweating and shaking._

_Frodo had managed to stumble on weak legs back into the warm cocoon of his bed. Lying with his eyes closed and listening drowsily to the hum of a spring afternoon, he had overheard Bilbo in the garden worrying over his charge's slow return to health with the Gaffer, unaware that he was within hearing._

_Frodo hadn't had the energy to get up and go to the window to indignantly protest, but there had been no need, for young Sam's voice had piped up. “I think Master Frodo is a bit like those Eniara plants over there. You remember Mister Bilbo, you brought 'em back from the elves and planted 'em yourself.”_

_“Boy, the Master don't need no advice from your like,” the Gaffer had, of course, interrupted._

_“That's all right, Gaffer. I really do want to hear what our Samwise has to say,” Bilbo had responded. “What do you mean Samwise?”_

_That little voice had piped up bravely, “Well, sir, meaning no disrespect, but you...you sorta forgot where you put 'em you know. And they got left out. No water, no tending, just left to go on their own as best they could . . . Right out in full sun, and them needing shade.”_

_“Samwise!” the Gaffer had interrupted in dismay._

_“Let him finish. It's all right,” Bilbo had said soothingly._

_Frodo had almost been able to see those huge gold eyes swivelling from the Gaffer to Mister Bilbo, as Sam's childish voice quavered to life again. “Well, they managed all right, they did, but they never did bloom like they ought and they were a tad yellow and just not quite right. So, I moved 'em to shade and seen to it they got the proper attention and all. Well, now they bloom like the stars in the sky and smell like... Well, they smell right nice they do.”_

_There had been a hint of a smile in Bilbo's patient response. “And how does that make them like Master Frodo?”_

_“Well, I'm thinking Master Frodo is like that. He was just planted in the wrong place for a while with no one really watching over him. But at Bag End here with us -- I mean with you, Mister Bilbo -- Bag End is the right place. And those Eniaras didn't thrive right off neither. Almost lost ‘em when first I moved 'em. Took a right while to get took there, but now they're fair taking over. They just needed some’un to pay 'em some attention.”_

_There had been a long silence. Frodo had found himself moved to tears. He'd had to imagine the look in Bilbo's eyes and was certain that, from the sound of it, his cousin had moved to hug the young gardener in gratitude. He heard an inaudible protest from the young voice, then Bilbo’s soft voice, “Thank you, Samwise. You are a master gardener.”_

_From that moment on, it seemed to Frodo that Bilbo had conspired, against all the Gaffer's instincts and objections, to push the two boys together, ensuring that his special transplant had all the attention required to thrive._

Frodo wondered what delicate seedlings Sam was pouring his light and energy into at that very moment. More strawberries? Some exotic plant Bilbo had persuaded him to foster?

No, it was more likely Sam was finished for the day and washing up before supper. He could picture Sam standing outside his smial in the last glimmers of sunlight, sluicing water over his bowed head and neck, then standing up and letting it slide down that heated skin, slide down his neck as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, slide down across that sun-kissed chest sparsely furred with gold as he pulled his braces free to dangle around his hips, slide further down.

Water sloshed onto the flagstones as Frodo lurched up, grabbing at the sides of the tub, gasping as water runnelled over him. He shook his head, flinging water everywhere, heedless of the hiss of an extinguished candle. How easily the water extinguished that flame. What would ease the flame that flared into unquenchable life in his breast and quickened his flesh at just the thought of touching Sam's heated skin as that water had, sliding his fingers down that same path?

Oh, Frodo knew what would ease it, certainly, but even that seemed only to bank the fire, not quench it. Nothing seemed to quench it. It seemed, at the moment, that it would manage to burn him to cinders even while he sat in steaming water. He muttered a dwarvish curse that Bilbo had taught him not long ago. He loved the harsh sound of it. It sounded exactly like what it said. And it said exactly what he wanted to say.

Grabbing the bowl of soap perched at the side of the tub, Frodo slathered it into his hair, tugging at the tangles harder than necessary, hoping the resulting twinges of pain would defeat his rebellious libido. He dunked his head quickly to rinse, then grabbed the rough sponge beside it and scrubbed, probably harder than necessary, at his face and neck. He stopped briefly to rub his thumbs into his eye sockets where dull twinges of pain still lingered, then abruptly remembered that pain, at this point, was a good thing.

So he scrubbed fiercely at his arms and hands and stood up, letting the water sluice off of him, running the sponge quickly and roughly over his back and legs, trying to ignore the tumescent evidence of his heated thoughts. He gritted his teeth, and propped one foot on the side of the tub, lathering the curly hair carefully, scrubbing at the leathery sole and rinsing, then doing the same for the other. He dunked himself back into the water, and then groped over the side of the tub for the bottle he had picked off the shelf. He pulled off the cork and sniffed. It wouldn't do to mistakenly douse himself with that concoction of Bilbo's, which smelled entirely too sweet. Lavender was for lasses, to his way of thinking. He poured a small dab of the juniper-smelling oil into his hands, carefully replaced the bottle and cork, then stood up and spread it carefully through his fingers, running his hands through his hair and quickly over his arms.

As his fingers slid across his ribs and down the sensitised flesh of his stomach, Frodo realized with a shiver that applying the oil probably hadn't been such a good idea. He stopped, took a deep breath, and wiped his hands roughly on his thighs. Then he leaned over, grasping for the ceramic pitcher he had placed by the tub for a final rinse, and hefted it up to pour it slowly over his head and then the rest of him.

A mistake that.

The feeling of the warm water sliding slowly over his skin was his undoing. By the time the pitcher was empty, he was shuddering with raw need.

Frodo barely managed to set the pitcher down without breaking it and grabbed at the side of the tub, gulping in ragged breaths. Impossible. This was impossible.

Pulling himself out of the tub, he slid down to sit on the rough floor, his legs sprawled out on the flagstones, his back scraping against the wood slats. Bilbo would find him here eventually, a pile of smouldering ash beside a tub of cool water, candles guttering in the moist air.

He leaned his head back against the tub, closing his eyes and sighing resignedly. As he slid his oil-slicked hand across heated skin, tremors rippled across his stomach ahead of the questing fingers. A thousand stars seemed to be vibrating within him as his hand closed around his own painfully rigid flesh.

It would never be enough, Frodo thought, as his fingers encircled and stroked. It would only be a matter of time until he was needy once more. Not even if he imagined his fingers tangled in that flaxen hair, pulling that generous mouth to his, pressing shoulder to knee into that sturdy sun-warmed frame, clothes and all. Drinking undiluted sunshine from that mouth. Falling into the sky full of stars in those eyes. Just one kiss and he would be undone. Just one kiss.

He managed to lift his other arm to press the back of his hand over his mouth as his body quivered with release, but not in time to stifle the moan that echoed in the stillness “Oh...S... Sam!” The thousand stars exploded back into the sky.

And something fell in the cellar beyond the door.

Frodo scraped skin off of his back by rising far too fast onto unsteady legs beside the tub. Still shuddering and breathing hard, the muscles in his thighs twitching in protest, he gazed at the door.

Which stood partially open, revealing dim shadows beyond.

Of course, why wouldn't it be? He must have left it that way in his distracted mood. He usually shut it, knowing Bilbo would fuss about the dampness getting into the cellar instead of going up and out the vent in the roof. But he must've left it open this time. No one would just wander into the cellar without knocking or making themselves known somehow. And certainly no one would open the bathing room door, not even Bilbo. And Bilbo was gone.

Frodo listened for long moments over the harsh sound of his own breathing, water dripping off of him and pooling on the floor. No sound came from the shadows beyond the door. He finally leaned over, his hands on his knees, exhaling with relief. It must've been some pest creeping around the stores. He would have to check for signs and warn Bilbo.

He groped for the sponge in the tub to swipe at the evidence on his stomach angrily. Tossing it back into the water and grabbing his towel, he rubbed roughly at his hair then dried the rest of him and wrapped it swiftly about his waist. His thoughts churned mercilessly as he worked to empty the tub, tilt it against the wall to dry, bank the stove and mop up the floor.

This could not continue. His body was reacting as if he were a tweener who had never even touched another. He _would_ burn to ashes or disintegrate into pieces if this went on without some resolution. He groaned when his mind automatically selected the resolution desired and threw him a vivid picture.

Shutting his eyes, Frodo wondered how many bottles of Old Winyards Bilbo had left.

 

 

*******

TBC  



	5. Chapter Four - Kiss

  
*******  
He had lost track again. Without benefit of Old Winyards or strawberry cordial or anything else, he had lost track of time and space and self. Fallen into the sky, as Bilbo often said when he found him spread-eagled on Bag End's roof.

He had joined in that glorious slow-wheeling dance of stars that swept the sky above Bag End. There were times when, drifting in that ceaseless, unfathomable song that had captivated him since childhood, he thought that he could hear the echoes of the never-ending music that created the world. At other times he knew that he was hearing the Eldar singing the praises of Elbereth herself, she who made the stars. The sky was a bowl of midnight blue burning with incandescent fire and he was floating on a sea of grass beneath it.

Then, after what seemed hours, and often was, he would gradually ease back into being just Frodo, a hobbit, lying in the grass on the hill above Bag End.

Sensation was achingly slow to return. First his neck, scrunched backward with the scratchy wool of the old blanket stuffed under his nape, cramped when he moved. Then his back began to itch from grass that had somehow worked its way through wool and linen into his skin. And his arms and legs tingled as if he had been playing out among the stars themselves. Finally, his chilled feet protested the cold air.

It was clearly only a few hours till dawn. Frodo could smell it in the moist tang of newly turned earth in the air. And he felt it in that deep silence -- as if the world took a breath, the stars ceased to sing, and the sun poised to continue the tune again in a different key.

He rolled slowly over onto his stomach, propping his chin on his forearms, definitely feeling the stiffness of lying far too long on cold ground, but relishing the absolute stillness and beauty of the hill. The newly unfurled leaves on the tree behind him rustled quietly as the world let out its breath. Closing his eyes, Frodo took a long slow inhalation of his own, then opened his eyes again.

The hill, bathed only with starlight, was sprinkled with innumerable wildflowers. Their mingled scents lingered in the moist air. They looked like tiny stars of all shapes, sizes and colours scattered in the darkness. They were all around him. Frodo had apologized for placing his blanket on top of a few, even though he had tried hard to find a bare spot.

It seemed to him that the hill had become more and more crowded with flowers every spring. The first spring that he had spent here, climbing up on shaky legs after a winter of illness and slow recovery, it seemed there were very few flowers on this hill. Now, wherever he stepped or sat and no matter what the season, he was rewarded with some beautiful flower face or breathtaking scent. And all of them wild, uncultivated, untended.

Something about that nudged at his memory. Something Bilbo had said once about the garden.  
  
Invariably, thinking about the garden turned his thoughts to Sam. But, of course, he thought wryly, thinking about anything these days came back to Sam somehow. He could probably start thinking about the price of pipe weed or the merits of one type of quill over another, and his thoughts would still meander some path back to Sam.

It was like the little tunes Sam sang in the garden. The ones Frodo could faintly hear throughout the day, teasing at the edges of his awareness, building gently, note on note around his heart, until he would suddenly realize that he was humming the song to himself and thinking of Sam.

So he thought of Sam and smiled. Today was Sam’s birthday. He was a tweenager at last. Frodo’s smile broadened as he remembered their planned excursion later in the day to the Dragon to christen Sam's first ale as a tween and his first pipe as a tween. And another first. His smile faded as he thought about that one. He was going to tell Sam what he felt for him. Today. On Sam’s birthday.

And Frodo realized that he was afraid -- afraid of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time or reacting the wrong way. Bilbo’s logic had seemed so flawless yesterday. But today he couldn’t get his head around it. There were so many directions it could go and so many ways that he could hurt Sam. He had to get his head around it.

He closed his eyes, as he lay there, stretched out amidst the flowers. What would he say if Sam was confused or shocked or dismayed at the thought that his best friend might feel that way about him? What if that luminous face dimmed for even a moment, thinking Frodo was asking for just another bit of service from the help? Or if Sam blushed and laughed, thinking his Mister Frodo was having him on as a joke?

Frodo opened his eyes with relief. That was a way to handle it. If things went badly, if it was clear that Sam wanted no part of it, then Frodo could laugh in response -- quickly turn it into a prank that he had played just today to introduce Sam to the joys of tweener tomfoolery.

That could work, and no one would be hurt. Perhaps Frodo could really manage to laugh then, relieved that the choice was effortlessly made -- relieved that the fork in the road that Bilbo had warned him of was past. He could deny his feelings and take that other road, and take it quickly, if it meant not hurting Sam.

Or could he? The idea of living so close to Sam, sharing so much of his life and burying these feelings so deeply seemed impossible. Could he shove these feelings so far out of sight that Sam would never suspect? Could he laugh with him and tramp the fields with him and work with him and enjoy his company and cherish him, but only as his dearest friend?

He had to. He wanted to be close enough to watch those toffee-haired children bring Sam his pipe and ride on his shoulders, to take joy in Sam’s joys and support him in his sorrows. But he knew he would always wonder what might have been if he had just said it differently, if he had not laughed so quickly, if...

The slightest breath of sound alerted him, and in the next moment he heard that beloved voice and closed his eyes in agony.

“Mister Frodo?” It was a tremulous, hesitant whisper.

He shot to his feet.

“Sam!!” He spun around, managing a smile. “I get to deliver the first birthday greetings! Unless the Gaffer beat me to...” he stopped when he saw Sam's demeanour.

Even in the deep shadows before dawn, it was clear that the gold head was bowed over something that Sam clutched to his chest. The broad shoulders were humped forward as if Sam was hanging onto whatever it was for dear life. Frodo couldn't see the expression on the familiar face in the darkness, only a pale blur, but something was terribly wrong.

“Sam?” He took a hesitant step forward. “What's wrong? Is someone ill or hurt? The Gaffer?” He felt his heart lurch suddenly, “Bilbo?”

The face lifted, and one hand reached out in negation. “No. No. Nothing like that, Mister Frodo.”

Frodo felt the air rush back into his lungs. “Then what?” He took another step, leaning his head, trying to get a look at his friend's face. “What's wrong Sam?”

The gold head lifted tentatively. Frodo wished desperately that he could see.

“I brought your mathom,” came the tremulous voice. “I...I wanted to give it to you up here on your hill, you know. Up here under your stars.”

“At this hour? Sam, you shouldn't,” Frodo began. But something Sam had just said. Something. The realization crashed into Frodo, as if the sky itself had fallen on him. “My hill?”

The flowers -- _his_ hill.

Frodo suddenly remembered what Bilbo had said about how much more care Sam seemed to lavish on the flowers around Frodo's bedroom window. How Sam seem to spend so much extra time on that little plot. Frodo had not paid much attention to it at the time. It was just the Baggins’ master gardener plying his trade with care in Bag End's garden, as he always had.

Comprehension dawned on him. All those times he had caught Sam either going up the hill or coming off of it with tools he shouldn't have needed or with an empty barrow -- Sam had been carefully sowing and transplanting all these flowers all those years. Frodo couldn't imagine all the work and care that had gone into coaxing myriad different kinds of wildflowers to act as if they weren't wild at all, and yet to manage it, to hide it all so well that it appeared to one oblivious hobbit as if they were.

Frodo looked around in disbelief. Disbelief that Sam had poured so much into this hill and never said anything. Disbelief that he had been gullible enough to think the hill was just blessed somehow by Yavanna to bloom and bloom and bloom.

Something was pouring into him from that falling sky. Something trembling and burning and singing like the stars.

“You...you did all this, created all this,” he whispered.

“Sir?”

“This hill. It blooms, every season it's full of colour. Even in winter,” his voice was shaking.

The sky was turning ever so slightly lighter. He could barely see Sam's face, but he couldn't decipher the expression there.

“Yes sir. The hill. Well, I,” those beloved features lifted skyward, silvered by starlight, sweeping the fathomless sky. Now Frodo could see the expression. Now he realized, Sam was terrified.

Terrified?

“I couldn't give you those, you know,” Sam indicated the sky full of stars above them with his chin. “And sometimes it...it seemed to me that you might just go and fall in, like Mister Bilbo said.”

“I can only work the soil Mister Frodo. It's all I know.” The voice was soft and unsteady. The face lowered once more. Even in the dark, Frodo could tell Sam was avoiding his gaze. “Even though you brought me up here and showed me all those stars. I think I'm pretty much rooted too deep, if you take my meaning.”

“Sam, what is it?” Frodo asked quietly, even while his heart hammered loudly in his ears. What was Sam struggling so hard to say? He clenched his hands at his sides, trying to stop them from shaking. “What's wrong?”

“Wrong.” It wasn't a question. Sam was staring at the ground again as the darkness slowly began to lift around them.

Now Frodo was concerned. Sam's normally tanned face was, for him, pale. There were dark smudges under his eyes. Something was wrong, horribly wrong. Nothing could shake Sam, not like this. What could have happened?  
  
“I was afraid, “ came the soft response to a question Frodo couldn't remember asking. “Afraid that you would fall into those stars, Mister Frodo. You needed roots, so I planted the hill for you. To keep you here.”

His face finally lifted, and in the dim light Frodo finally saw it. Those familiar hazel eyes seemed to glow like a banked fire in that too pale face. When had those innocent, mischievous eyes suddenly transformed into this smouldering gold gaze? Frodo felt his breath catch and his mouth open at the intensity of it. He almost took a step backward, but something in Sam's expression held him firmly to the earth.

“Sam?” he whispered, suddenly terrified himself.

Somehow the sky, the hill, the world had faded into obscurity. All he could see was that face lifted to his, the stars reflecting in those eyes and burning through him. All he could hear was Sam's rasping breath, and his own.

Then he caught it, on the slightest morning breeze, that scent -- earthy, rich, vital, overlaid with grass, and flowers, and a hint of soap. Sam. His eyes closed painfully.

“You see, Frodo, I was always afraid. Afraid you would leave,” came the tremulous voice. “I still am.”

Frodo's eyes snapped open. Somewhere deep inside, stars shuddered to life. Sam had said 'Frodo'. Not 'Mister'. Not 'sir'. Just 'Frodo'.

“Afraid?” was all he could manage.

“Scared spitless.”

“That I would leave? Why?” Frodo felt addled, winded, unable to think. This conversation was not going the way he expected. No, wait, he hadn't expected to have this conversation at all. He didn't even know what conversation they were having. In the dim light, he could see the corner of Sam's mouth quirk upward and his eyebrows lift ever so slightly. It was as if Sam realized that Frodo was having trouble following the conversation.

Suddenly Frodo felt a desperate need to fill the blanks spaces, to talk before Sam could say anything else. “I mean, why would you...?”

Sam was suddenly standing right in front of him and two cold fingers were laid softly on his lips. Frodo was afraid to breath or blink. Intense and shadowed, Sam's face hung only inches from his. Frodo couldn’t smell any trace of alcohol, but this was suddenly no longer his Sam. He didn't know this Sam.

“Most times it's hard to coax two words out of you. Then when I need for you to be quiet just for a minute, you become as much a chatterbox as young Master Pippin.”

Frodo's gazed at him in disbelief. At any moment, the Gaffer's training would take over and this person would disappear.

And, as expected, Sam suddenly seemed to realize that he had overstepped his bounds and his eyes widened. He pulled back his fingers. Frodo's hand flew up and grasped his, holding him in place firmly.

“I'm listening Sam,” he said softly. “Please, tell me why.”

For a moment Sam's hand shivered in Frodo's grip, the fingers cold, the palm slippery with sweat. Sam's gaze slid away, but Frodo did not let go. The gold eyes reminded him of some skittish woodland creature standing at the edge of the trees, trembling with indecision. Was the meadow safe, or not? Was the sweet grass there worth the risk, or not?

Then Sam looked back, and Frodo saw stone and steel lock in place behind the gold. Sam pulled his fingers loose and clamped them around the cloth-covered bundle still pressed to his chest. He was clearly shaking, but he didn't step back.

“I figure there are two whys. Why you would leave, and why I am afraid.” Sam went on, as if the conversation hadn't been interrupted. “I think you would leave because, you...you're like those stars up there, Mister Frodo. You're as different from the rest of us as those stars of yours are from these flowers. “ He tilted his chin at the hill.

“Because you build entire worlds out of little black words on paper, and sometimes you hear things that no one else even bothers to listen for, and you see things that no one else would even dream of. But most times, all that does is to make you feel different and out of place.” That brought a deep breath and a flicker of the gold eyes. “ And because there's something at Brandy Hall that I'm thinking's not settled, and won't never be, and you always going back as if to settle it. And there are times that I think Mister Merry wants to be more than just a cousin, though I don't think you've noticed _that_ yet.”

Frodo felt the blood drain out of his face and opened his mouth, but no sound came out. At this slight sign of protest, Sam shifted warily as if readying himself to leave. Frodo clamped his mouth shut, biting his lip hard in the process.

“And because if Mister Bilbo goes, like he's been talking of late . . . you might just go, too, just to be with him, because he's -- home.” The gold eyes softened with that. “Because he's the only home you've ever really had.”

Frodo felt his chest tighten and his throat constrict painfully. He needed to sit down. “Sam,” he could only manage a croak.

“I'm not done yet, Mister Frodo, begging your pardon and all, but I have been working on this all night and it's not started the way I planned, but I am certain I plan to finish it, if you... I mean, if...begging your pardon and all.”

Frodo could only nod, almost unable to bear the expanding stars trembling and burning under his breastbone. He was wondering if the next well-used Sam phrase would be something about his proper place and all of this would stop before he flew into a million pieces.

“Why am I afraid?”

The other why. And this why terrified Sam the most, if his expression was any indication.

Sam’s hands clenched and unclenched around the treasure he held to his chest and he closed his eyes. “Because...because if you left the stars would go with you, and the songs, and the stories. Because if you left, all those words would just be black marks on paper, and there wouldn't be any reason to be planting flowers any more.” There was a hitch in Sam's voice.

“Because I want...I want to see you near falling out your window in the mornings just trying to get a sniff of the Eniara, and...and watch you chew your fingernails when you think no one's looking, and hear you curse in that dwarf tongue when you trim a quill all wrong. And I want to see your face when you lie up here with your eyes looking like the sea must look reflecting all those stars. Because you're...”

There were tears glimmering in those gold eyes when Sam opened them at last, “Because you're the most beautiful thing in my life, and I can't...” Tears spilled over onto pale cheeks as the shaking voice hitched to a halt.

Frodo realized his own face was wet just as he reached out his hand toward Sam's face to wipe away his tears. Sam’s hand lifted up at the same time to hang trembling in the air beyond Frodo’s cheek.

“I can’t,” Sam hesitated for a moment, unable to say the words. “I can’t let you leave, least ways, not without me.”

They both stood shivering in the still grey light, Frodo’s hand cupping Sam’s face, his thumb swiping gently at the tears. Sam’s fingertips hovering almost reverently over the wetness on Frodo’s, as if he were unwilling to touch.

“Sam.” A shaking whisper was all Frodo could manage.

Sam's precious package fell unheeded into the soft grass. He lifted his other hand to grasp Frodo’s fingers where they cupped his face. Frodo stilled his hand under Sam’s cold fingers and waited, as those smouldering gold eyes burned into his.

Then Sam’s eyes closed and Frodo felt heat radiating from the skin under his now shaking hand. Sam was blushing.

And Sam, his shy, diffident, ever in his 'proper place' Sam, slowly moved his face in that hand and pressed a kiss into the palm.

Frodo suddenly realized that a different kiss than he expected had undone him at last.

 

 

*******

TBC  



	6. Chapter Five - Sunshine

  
*******  
Later, Frodo couldn't say who had crossed that final half step between them or when they had lost their footing. He only knew that somehow he was on his knees with an armful of trembling Sam, who had his face buried somewhere in the vicinity of Frodo's neck and was breathing something that sounded like Frodo’s name over and over.

Frodo found himself gulping in air and trying hard to maintain his balance. His hands shook with the desperate need to pull that face up to his and fiercely capture that mouth with his own. But he still managed somehow to be gentle, as he cupped his fingers around the gold head buried in his neck and turned Sam's face up toward his.

“Sam? Look at me, Sam.”

Sam was breathing in open-mouthed gasps, his face flushed and wet, his eyes squeezed shut. Frodo swiped at the tears gently.

“Samwise?”

The sound of his given name snapped those hazel eyes open, but they were dark and unfocused. Frodo realized that his steadfast, both-feet-firm-on-the-ground Sam was, for once, completely uprooted.

“Oh, Sam.” Frodo gazed at that tanned face, so open and vulnerable, and so very close. He couldn't keep himself from at least touching what he wanted desperately to kiss. Frodo pushed a bedraggled flaxen curl behind one perfect ear tip and traced one beloved eyebrow with a shaking finger. He ached to touch that mouth, to run his thumb across that bottom lip, but that would be too much for Sam at this point, if he was reading things right. And he wasn't certain of anything. Fighting for control, he closed his eyes and bit his lip.

Heat flared through Frodo at the tentative touch of a fingertip on his face and he gasped in surprise. He opened his eyes to find Sam's gaze focused on his mouth. Then Sam, ever the quick learner, slowly traced the curve of Frodo's bottom lip with his finger and Frodo suddenly realized there was no controlling this. This was far more intoxicating than any brew in Bilbo's vast stores.

Sam's finger retraced its path and Frodo shook with the effort to stay still beneath that slow, concentrated exploration. But he was finally overwhelmed when eyes, dazzled with stars, slid up to meet his. With one hand still entangled in flaxen hair, Frodo pulled that face slowly to his, curving his other hand around Sam's nape. He watched as those eyes fluttered slowly shut in surrender, then captured those lips, still wet with tears, beneath his own.

It seemed ages before Frodo could manage to move slightly to slant his lips over that perfect mouth, already yielding and open beneath his. But he delicately ran his tongue along Sam's bottom lip before slipping it slowly into that dark sweetness. He felt, rather than heard, Sam's humming intake of breath at that gentle invasion. He slid his fingers down from neck to back and firmly pulled the shaking, sturdy form to him as he deepened the kiss.

Frodo felt Sam’s heart quicken in pace as those calloused fingers fumbled at his waist and fastened there, trembling. Then he nearly groaned when he felt the tentative flicker of Sam's tongue against his. And he knew, pressed together, shoulder to knee, that the hardened evidence of his own desire was making itself obvious to Sam. This had to stop soon or they would both be far beyond the point of returning.

Perhaps they already were. But Frodo thought perhaps he could survive just on sipping sunshine from those lips, plundering the secrets of that mouth, for the rest of his days.

When he felt Sam's strong fingers plough into his hair, he pulled away, gasping for breath, and leaned his forehead against Sam's. Sam made a strangled sound of dismay.

“Sam, whatever it is we are doing,” Frodo whispered hoarsely, feeling Sam suddenly tense in his arms, “we need to stop.”

There was an inarticulate sound of protest from Sam, which was just as suddenly cut off. Frodo moved back on his haunches and slid his hands to grip Sam's shoulders. Then he took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

Sam was gazing at him with wide glassy eyes, breathing hard, his hands clenched on his thighs. Frodo could tell from the expression on that beloved face that Sam had misunderstood what he had just said. Sam lowered his head and stared somewhere at the grass under his knees.

Frodo suddenly realized that every single word he uttered today might direct the path that they had just turned down -- into sunlight or shadow. He took a deep breath. “I would keep on kissing you,” he reached out and lifted that lowered chin gently until gold eyes met his, “my dearest Sam, until all the stars fall from the sky. But the sun is rising, and we are on the Hill.” Frodo glanced around them pointedly.

Sam eyes widened. He seemed to suddenly ken that he could indeed see Frodo quite well in the growing light.

“I want to make certain that you understand what it means . . . to kiss me on this particular hill in broad daylight. Before we continue this . . . or move it elsewhere,” Frodo went on.

Sam collapsed sideways in the grass, catching himself on outstretched hands.  
  
“Sam!” Frodo was beside him in a moment, grabbing his arm. “What is it? Sam?”

Sam was breathing hard, staring sightlessly at the soil beneath his hands and Frodo suddenly felt dizzy. What if he had misinterpreted everything? What if Sam didn't...wasn't... He felt his stomach roil and his entire body go suddenly cold and clammy.

“You said...you said 'continue',” Sam managed in a strangled voice. “You really do want _me_.” The last word was nearly inaudible.

Frodo thought he would collapse with relief himself. His hands were shaking as he lifted that face up to his again and captured that mouth and made absolutely certain that Sam understood how much he did want him. He managed to pull back just as Sam's arms began to slide up around him. Pressing gentle fingers to those parted lips, Frodo gazed into those unfocused eyes and sank back gracelessly, his legs folding beneath him. Sam followed to lean before him on one arm, both of them sprawled amidst the blooming, fragrant flowers in the soft grey light of dawn. The sound of their breathing was in harsh contrast to the soft, tentative trills and calls of waking birds around them and Frodo gazed at Sam in disbelief.

Here on his hill. Surrounded by wildflowers that Sam had tamed to his hand. To, what had Sam said, to give Frodo roots. And here Sam was before him in the midst of those flowers. In all his dreams, even when he had hoped against hope that Sam felt the same, he never imagined that Sam would have been the one to declare his feelings.

But Sam wouldn't. No matter how he felt, what he felt. The Sam he knew wouldn't have come up here and said the things that he had said without some reason, some change, something. He frowned, but managed to wipe it off his face when Sam raised his gaze from the grass and seemed to focus on him.

“Are you all right, Sam?” Frodo managed.

Sam looked as if he had been pole axed. He shook his head slowly in the negative. “My head. The hill is going round,” Sam whispered in disbelief. “It's like I've had too much ale.”

Frodo couldn't help grinning broadly, which brought an answering, but somewhat confused, smile from Sam.

“Well, I would say it feels more like too much of Aunt Dora's blackberry wine myself. But then I think perhaps you are better at kissing than I am, Sam,” Frodo said quickly.

Sam was suddenly staring at the grass once more, his face flushed with colour.

Frodo scooted forward just enough to be able to touch Sam's arm, which Sam had outstretched so that he would not collapse into the grass. “Like Aunt Dora's wine -- luscious, but a bit of a surprise. Like this.”

Sam looked back down at his hand in the grass, as if it was not attached to his body somehow and had surprised him by showing up there at the end of his arm. “This?”

“This. You. Up here. Today.”

Sam focused on him again, with some effort. “A surprise?”

Frodo felt a thrill run through him at this evidence of how befuddled Sam really was. Could it be that Sam had been drinking a bit too much after all? “Perhaps we should go down and get some tea?”

Sam finally seemed to register this, he looked up frowning, “Tea? Then you don't want...uh.”

“To continue this? Oh yes. But,” then Frodo saw those eyes go molten and dark again at 'yes'. He lost track of what he had been saying as his mouth went suddenly dry.

“I mean, yes,” he managed. “But not up here, not right this moment.”

“Then where. And when?” Sam demanded, looking at him from beneath gold lashes, features flushed, mouth open.

“Sam. When you look at me like that, I can't think,” Frodo took a gulping breath. “And you said I was the most beautiful thing in _your_ life. I wish you could see yourself right now. See what you're doing to _me_.” He pressed one hand over his chest as if to contain it and express it at the same time.

Sam stared at Frodo’s hand, then his eyes slid further down and Frodo felt his own face flush. It was fairly obvious what Sam was doing to him. And perhaps standing up and walking down the hill was not such a good idea after all. At least, not right this moment.

“Or we could stay here,” he offered weakly.

Now it was Sam's turn to look at him as if he had had a bit too much to drink.

“I'm sorry, Sam, but you... This was a bit of a surprise.”

“You keep saying that,” Sam offered petulantly.

“Yes, well, because it was.”

“Well, I guess I was just... I was...” Sam stuttered to a halt.

Frodo waited.

Sam took a long deep breath and sat up, running one hand through his hair shakily. “Mister Bilbo. He...”

Frodo sat up and his eyes widened. Bilbo wouldn't have.

“He came into the Dragon last eve and he... Well, he... I should'na be talking about Mister Bilbo's business I guess.”

“Sam, “Frodo said firmly, “what did Bilbo say?”

“Well,” Sam said hesitantly, “he just scared me is all. He was talking about you. About you being off your feed and a bit peaked and...”

“And what?” Frodo was leaning forward, every muscle tensed.

“And you had taken to your bed. He seemed right upset, I'd say. Said you had been talking about heading off again to Brandy Hall.” Sam seemed to decide he had said about enough. “I was just worried, is all.”

“That's all? You just wanted to make sure I wasn't going to Brandy Hall?” Frodo asked tensely.

Sam looked closed at Frodo's face, then back down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. “No.” His voice was so low Frodo could barely hear him.

“What, Sam? What then?”

“I was afraid.”

Frodo frowned. “Afraid?”

“Afraid I had waited too long. “

“Waited too long?” Frodo realized his voice sounded as strained as he felt.

Sam leaned forward, peering at him. “You sound a bit like that echo over in Needlehole.”

Frodo managed to smile. “I suppose I do.”

“Begging your pardon,” Sam added hastily, looking back down.

“Let's make an agreement, Samwise. No 'begging your pardon' or 'proper place' or 'Mister Frodo' up here on 'my' hill, in the midst of 'my' flowers.”

Sam looked around at the flowers, smiled tremulously, and then looked back at Frodo. “Yes, sir.”

“No 'sirs' either!” Frodo exclaimed.  
  
The tentative smile strengthened a bit. “Yes, Mis... I mean, Frodo.”

“Now, what do you mean, afraid you had waited too long?”

The smile vanished. Sam stared at his hands again.

“For you,” he whispered.

And Frodo was completely unable to think for a moment.

“Boy!! Where have you got off to, boy?” came the Gaffer's familiar gruff voice from down the hill.

Sam turned pale, then stood straight up and spun around. “Up here sir!” he yelled. “Be right there!!!'

Frodo sprang up as Sam turned back to him. For a moment Frodo was speechless. He wanted to grab Sam in desperation. “But, Sam?”

“I near forgot. I have to go. We lost seedlings unexpected like in the freeze and we have catch up to do. I don't know when we'll get finished today. And Miz Lobelia, we have to redo all her bedding plants because she wants to move the colours around, and...”

“But your birthday. Are we going to?”

“Maybe later, Mister Frodo,” Sam winced when he realized what he had said. “I mean, Frodo.”  
  
“Samwise!!!!” came the exasperated roar from down the hill.

“I mean...” Those gold eyes met his for only a moment and one hand stretched toward him.

Frodo couldn't manage to move under the intensity of that gaze.

“I have ta go,” Sam ground out and turned to run off through the grass.

Frodo watched him disappear down the hill in the grey light of early morning then crumpled back down into the grass. For a moment, he sat there in disbelief.

Sam. Sam had been waiting?

He had the sudden urge to run after him and just grab him from under the Gaffer's nose and drag him into Bag End and never let him out again, never be interrupted by duty or family or responsibility.

He touched his lips almost reverently, then flung his arms up and sank back into the soft turf.

Here in the beauty of this spring morning, breathing in the scent of flowers that Sam had planted just for him, overwhelmed by the stars twirling under his breastbone and threatening to carry him off into the sky, he was remembering every word Sam had spoken, every look in his eyes, every moment. He rolled over onto his stomach and cradled his chin on his forearms. All he could see were flowers. His flowers. His hill.

His Sam.

He moaned. How could one body contain this? He felt as if he would explode.

And he knew he certainly would die if he had to wait one more hour to talk to Sam again, to touch him, much less an entire day -- or more.

He wanted to howl with frustration.

And Bilbo. He was hard pressed to decide whether or not he should be angry with Bilbo for meddling. Purposefully meddling, apparently. Going to the Green Dragon instead of the Ivy Bush, because the Gamgees would be there. Getting poor Sam into such a state.  
  
Bilbo was going to hear from him about this.

Then he felt the agonized grimace on his face melt into a grin. And he laughed out loud, startling a few birds right out of the Bag End tree.

If there was one thing Frodo Baggins knew how to do, it was get back at meddling cousins.

 

 

*******

TBC  



	7. Chapter Six - Scamp

  
*******  
Frodo thought that he was going to starve while he waited for Bilbo to check on him. It seemed endless, lying there in his bed through the warm spring morning, listening to Sam and the Gaffer out in the garden. Endless because he could hear a change in Sam's song today. It was different. It was no longer the simple, carefree tune of yesterday. It was more intense. Less innocent. He closed his eyes and shivered at the thought.

Frodo could imagine Sam's face as he sang. The distant look in those eyes, the odd distracted quirk of that mouth, the dreamy expression. He could easily imagine it because he had seen that look on his own face in the mirror just this morning. He could even hear a change in Sam’s voice when he spoke to the Gaffer. Or perhaps it was just because the sound of that voice throbbed through Frodo and left him shaking. When they finally moved to another part of the garden, he breathed a sigh of relief mingled with frustration. He wanted so badly to just...

The knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. Bilbo had waited until it was almost time for lunch before worry overcame consideration.

Frodo checked quickly. His hair was suitably damp, his nightshirt was thoroughly soaked, and the bedclothes were twisted around him. He grimaced and grabbed a specially prepared dish full of chopped onion and pepper from his nightstand. He held the onion up to his eyes warily until he just couldn't stand it, then dipped his fingers into the spice, dusted it off, and barely touched his eyelids. He nearly yelped at the sting, but managed to bundle everything quickly into the towel and under his pillows, curling into a tight ball under the covers to wait.

“Frodo?” came Bilbo's tentative call.

He didn't respond.

He heard the door click open and swing inward.

“Frodo? Lad, are you all right?”

He tried to imitate a pile of covers.

Bilbo approached tentatively. “Frodo?”

Nothing.

Bilbo circled the bed. “This is getting to be a bit of a habit, lad.”

At that moment, Frodo lifted his head and looked blearily at Bilbo. He watched Bilbo blanch at the swollen eyes and obvious evidence of crying, the soaked nightshirt and twisted sheets, then buried his head back under the covers, turning away from his cousin.

“Leave me alone, Bilbo,” he mumbled in a hitching voice.

“Frodo, lad, what... What's happened? What's wrong?” Bilbo's tone was worried now. He circled the bed.

Frodo turned back over. “Noth...ing.”

Bilbo edged to the end of the bed, choosing a neutral location.

“Frodo, obviously something...”

Frodo sat straight up in bed. “Leave. Me. Alone.” he gritted out, and twisted back into the covers.

Bilbo stood for the longest time at the end of the bed. Frodo wondered if the Took or the Baggins would win this argument.

“No, I'm not leaving. Not until I know what's happened, lad.”

The Took. Curiosity over politeness every time.

Frodo let him wait for a bit, then struggled to the side of the bed and sat up with apparent effort. Bilbo circled to that side warily, but Frodo stuck out one hand.

“If you won't leave, I will,” he managed, standing up on wobbly legs. It wasn't difficult to feign, considering how long he had lain there.

Frodo managed to grab his carefully positioned backpack on his way to the wardrobe, swiping at his eyes as he went, avoiding Bilbo's gaze. He changed his plans at the last moment, dumped the bag at his wardrobe door and headed for the washstand, desperate to wash the spice off his eyes.

As he splashed water on his face and reached for the towel, he felt Bilbo's hand touch his shoulder.

“Frodo?”

The tone almost undid Frodo, but he steeled himself. Just a little longer.

Frodo turned away, grabbing his small clothes and breeches and pulling them on. He stripped off his nightshirt and shrugged into a shirt while Bilbo stood behind him, wringing his hands.

“Frodo lad, we've always been able to talk.”

Frodo buttoned his shirt and shoved it into his breeches, fastening them quickly and pulling up his braces, glad to finally get dressed.

“Yes, we have,” he gritted out.

“Things went badly then? With Samwise?”

Frodo didn't respond. He started stuffing clothes from the wardrobe into his pack randomly.

“What are you,” Bilbo kept trying, “Where are you going lad?”

“Perhaps to Brandy Hall.”

“To...for a visit?”

Frodo went around him, laying the pack on his bed and turning to his bedside table. “I don't know yet.”

“But, Frodo, Bag End is your home. You can't...”

Frodo ignored him, but his stomach was starting to twist into a knot at the desperate tone in his cousin's voice. This was much harder than he had thought it would be. Bilbo followed him as he began stuffing odds and ends off the table into the pack. His voice was quiet when he finally said the words that Frodo was waiting for.

“You're my heir, lad. You can't just walk away without...”

“I'm your heir? Not yet, not until next September, I think.”

Bilbo waved his hand. “That's just a formality.”

“No it's not. I am not an adult until then, am I?” Frodo retorted.

“Well, no, not officially, but,” Bilbo seemed lost.

“But what?”

“But you... We... I've treated you as an adult for a long time now.”

“Have you, really?” Frodo turned and took a step forward, effectively backing Bilbo into the corner.

“Yes, of course. I have never...”

“Meddled in my business? Interfered in my life? No, Bilbo, you have always let me clean up my own messes, make my own mistakes, decide how and when and on what terms I confront the difficulties.”

Bilbo nodded.

Frodo crossed his arms. “Until yesterday.”

Bilbo's eyes widened and he went pale.

“So, obviously you don't really think I am a suitable heir. If I can't manage my own life, how could I possibly manage Bag End?”

“I... Certainly you can manage your own life.”

“Really?”

“Of course!”

“So, yesterday was an exception?”

“Yesterday...yesterday, I...” Bilbo looked stricken. “I just want you to be happy, lad. I only gave him a tiny nudge. That's all.”

“A _nudge_?” Frodo countered in disbelief.

“I only said you were talking of leaving, going to Brandy Hall. Which was, by the way, true.”

“You went to the Green Dragon specifically because Sam would be there, didn't you?”

Bilbo looked shamefaced and gazed at the floor.

Frodo turned back to packing.

“I don't know what to say Frodo. I...I thought one of you needed to make a move.”

“And you didn't trust me to do it myself, in my own time. Now we will never know, will we?” Frodo shot back.

“So things did not go well, then? I was so sure. I was absolutely certain that Sam.” Bilbo shook his head. “Oh my. I am... I don't know what to say, my boy. What can I do? I know that you... I...” Bilbo stepped forward and put his hand on Frodo's arm. “I am so very sorry my boy. I just wanted you to be happy.”

Frodo turned to face him, unwilling to twist the knife any further. “I didn't say I wasn't happy Bilbo,” he said softly.

Bilbo blinked.

“Upset with you for meddling? Yes. Angry at you for pushing Sam even a little bit? Yes. But not unhappy.” He smiled.

Bilbo was gazing at Frodo’s face in disbelief.

“Actually, I am in such high spirits that I can't stay annoyed with you at all,” Frodo said, then grinned broadly.

Bilbo grabbed Frodo's arms and gazed into his face closely, a delighted smile slowly breaking across his face. “You scamp! You...”

“Baggins?” Frodo offered, smirking.

“Why I should... You had me frightened within an inch of my life. You young scallywag!” Bilbo shook him with a mock scowl. He placed his hand over his heart dramatically. “Scaring an old hobbit like that!”

“You deserved it, you old scamp!” Frodo shot back. “Scaring a young hobbit like that.”

“So. Things with Sam?” Bilbo's smile grew tentative.

“Things with Sam will be fine.” Frodo gripped his cousin's shoulder gently. “Thanks to you, Bilbo. I shouldn't have...”

Bilbo suddenly pulled Frodo into a quick, fierce embrace, then pushed back, holding him firmly by both arms. “No, my boy, don't apologize. It was well deserved. I know better than to interfere. You have to make your own decisions, live your own life.” He stood there for a moment as if he were about to say something else, but thought better of it.

Frodo touched his cousin's wrinkled cheek, “Dear Bilbo. Don't worry about me. I think I can manage this part of my life on my own.”

Bilbo grinned, “I trust you will, lad, and quite well, too.” He smacked the side of Frodo's head playfully. “This calls for cracking open a bot...”

Frodo grimaced. “Oh no. No more alcohol, please Bilbo. I have had my fill.”

Bilbo smiled knowingly. “Tea, then?”

“Yes, lots of tea. Tea would be wonderful.” Frodo moved back to the bed and began pulling things out of his bag and placing them back on his bedside table.

“Well, I have some nice stew and fresh bread on the table. I was coming to drag you out of bed.” Bilbo paused and looked around the room. “You were lying in wait for me weren't you? All this time?”

Frodo smiled.

“That was a quite good one, lad. Very well done. You've paid me back quite well, I would say.” Bilbo leaned forward to peer closely at Frodo's face. “But your eyes look quite red and puffy. Are you sure?”

“Just a little bit of pepper. But I think I overdid it.” Frodo went back to the washstand and splashed more water in his eyes.

“Pepper, eh?”

“And fresh cut onion,” Frodo offered as his face dripped over the basin.

Bilbo shook his head and laughed delightedly. “You are a Baggins through and through, boy. Through and through.” He walked toward the door. “I'll get things set up. Just come on when you are ready.” He went toward the kitchen, still making amused noises to himself.

Frodo scrubbed his face with the towel and looked after his cousin. Strangely enough, despite all the frustration and anxiety, he couldn't remember many days better than this one. He grinned at the room in general and went to find a decent waistcoat.

 

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TBC  



	8. Chapter Seven - Celebration

  
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It seemed to Frodo that he had spent the whole day waiting. Despite the brief moment before lunch when he had been light-hearted and relaxed, he had found himself becoming increasingly impatient and edgy as the afternoon wore on. Frodo realized that he was nervously fiddling with a thread hanging from one of the buttons on his waistcoat when the button popped off and landed in the dirt right in the middle of the Hill Road. Pushing away from the white fence that edged the road in front of Bag End, he bent down to grab the button and shove it into his waistcoat pocket, then gazed down the road one more time.

Sam was probably exhausted. Starting before dawn at Bag End, then moving to Lobelia's at noon, and working until you could barely see your hand before your face. Frodo had already made a trip down to the Row twice to check, and still they weren't home.

Frodo looked up at the windows of Bag End. Bilbo was holed up in his study already and Frodo had told him that he was planning to go to the Green Dragon tonight to celebrate Sam's birthday, so Frodo decided to check one last time. Perhaps the Gaffer had dragged Sam off to the Dragon on the way home, instead of coming home to wash up and eat first. He could walk down to the Row and see. If they weren't home this time, he would head on down to the Dragon himself.

He strolled down the Hill Road and went around the corner to the Row. When he had checked before, Daisy had been fairly certain that the Gaffer and Sam would be home in time for supper, but standing out by the roadside, Frodo listened closely and couldn't hear the Gaffer's or Sam's low tones in the kitchen at Number 3. All he heard were the high-pitched voices of Sam's sisters, so he quickly backed away and headed for the Hill Road once more. He had endured enough of Marigold's giggling and smirking and Daisy's curious looks today to last a lifetime.

As the sky deepened into dusk and the earth under his feet swiftly lost the warmth of the spring sun, Frodo barely noticed the scent of wild blooms and freshly tilled earth in the evening air. He was nervously trying to remember every word that had been said on the hill earlier that day as he strode down the Hill Road toward the Green Dragon. Trying to remember so that he could say the right thing to Sam, if he got the chance. But what would the right thing be?

Frodo heard them before he saw them. Gruff words from the Gaffer and Sam's voice responding in his familiar tone, but the words were undecipherable. Frodo's heart leapt into his throat with anticipation, then came crashing to his feet when he rounded the curve and caught sight of the two of them.

Sam was hunched over and walking far too slowly and the Gaffer was pushing the barrow that Sam normally handled. Something was wrong. Frodo ran. He saw the gold head lift when Sam spotted him. Something clenched in his chest when he realized that Sam was cradling one arm in the other and his hand was wrapped in a dishcloth.

“What happened? Sam, are you all right?” Frodo skidded to a halt beside them.

“Nothing to worry yerself about, Master Frodo. Samwise just got hisself sliced a bit by his own shears,” the Gaffer explained in a tired voice.

Frodo looked into Sam's face as he reached for the bandaged hand. “Did you get it seen to?”

“Miz Aster cleaned it up and wrapped it right nice, and had a bit of the strong stuff at the Dragon to numb it down, he did, but he'll be useless ta me for a bit. And us with all this planting ahead of us! I dunno what got in ta him today. Never seen him so clumsy as that.”

“I was just tired, da.” Sam's voice was a bit slurred.

The Gaffer made a growling noise. “I seen you tired boy, an you never sliced yerself up afore.”

Sam's gold eyes slid up to Frodo's in the dim light and Frodo reached out quickly to grab his elbow. After a moment's resistance, he felt Sam lean into him willingly.

“Well, we'll just have to celebrate your birthday tomorrow, that's all,” Frodo stated firmly.

“Hmpf. That crowd at the Dragon done plenty'a celebrating already for the next few birthdays, if'n ya ask me.”

Frodo wondered just how much 'strong stuff' they had poured into Sam in the name of 'numbing it down' before they started celebrating. He leaned around to get a good look at Sam's face. Sam blinked at him tiredly, then gave him a lopsided grin, his eyes shining. Frodo smiled back, realizing his heart was probably in his eyes as well.

“You have to be careful Sam. Bilbo won't tolerate our master gardener getting hurt working for the S.-B.s,” Frodo joked.

The Gaffer made an undecipherable noise under his breath, but said nothing.

Despite a nagging worry about how badly the hand was cut, Frodo felt strangely content walking up the Hill Road with Sam leaning on him. With every stride, Sam managed to press more of his arm into Frodo's until they were practically walking in a stumbling lockstep. And Sam kept sneaking looks at him, as if reassuring himself that Frodo was really there, holding onto his arm. Frodo could feel the strong steady throb of Sam's heartbeat thrumming under his fingers as he gripped Sam's wrist. He felt the cadence speed up with each glance, and could feel his own pulse hammering in response.

They were both too absorbed to notice that the Gaffer was looking at them with an odd expression on his face.

“I'll head up to Bag End with these. You get home and get some food into ya, boy, afore you get sick from all that drinkin.” The Gaffer headed on up the Hill Road with the barrow and they walked several more steps before they realized they were completely alone.

Frodo stopped suddenly in the road and Sam almost fell over. Frodo looked around quickly and pulled him off the road and into the shadows on the other side of a huge shade tree that angled out over the road. He carefully helped Sam lean against the trunk and reached for his injured hand.

“Sam, are you sure you're all right?”

“Just a little dizzy is all,” Sam managed.

“Does your hand?”

“Stings a bit. Picked my shears up wrong and sliced the palm good.”

Frodo cupped the swathed hand gently in both of his and looked up at Sam. “I wish I could take you home with me and take care of you. You won't be able to do anything with this hand for a while.” As he spoke, Frodo watched the expressions chase across that face. Even in the deep shadows under the tree he could tell what Sam was thinking. Those lips had opened a bit at the thought of his Mister Frodo 'taking care of him' and Frodo felt the broad hand shake in his. Frodo smiled. It was a powerful feeling to realize that he could make his sturdy Sam shiver in anticipation.

“But,” he continued, “I suspect your sisters will lavish you with attention and wait on you hand and foot.”

“Hmpf. That's just what I need,” Sam snorted, “Those three playing nursemaid and all.”

Frodo laughed. “Poor Sam. I just wish this hadn't ruined your birthday.”

“Oh, it didn't ruin my birthday,” Sam said dreamily, staring at Frodo's mouth.

The heat in that gaze made Frodo's knees go a bit wobbly. He took a deep, shaky breath. “I'm glad, Sam,” he managed, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to Sam's mouth. He was pulling away, thinking that kiss would have to last for a while, when Sam's other hand ploughed into his hair.

“Sam!” Frodo whispered. Then suddenly he could taste the sharp tang of spirits and the sweet intoxicating brew that was Sam on that mouth. And then Sam tentatively ran his tongue across Frodo's lower lip. Frodo lost all sense of reality and leaned into that sturdy form as Sam held him firmly in place with one hand. When he felt Sam move his hand and head in order to delve even deeper, Frodo closed his eyes and moaned, opening his mouth to further exploration by that tongue and curving his fingers around Sam's nape.

Then Sam groaned, and Frodo felt the vibration from his head to his toes. He knew that his mouth was moving over Sam's hungrily, almost roughly in his urgency, but he suddenly couldn't think. He could only feel, and he was lost in the sensation.

Until he heard the slam of a door on the Row and managed to jerk backwards, almost falling on his backside in the process.

“Sam!” he hissed. “You... Uh.” Even in the dim light, he could see the hunger in Sam's gaze. He lost all reason looking at that face.

Sam would never have dared a kiss by the side of the Hill Road without a strong drink or two under his belt. And the Gaffer may have already noticed far too much. He didn’t want to force Sam to face that particular discussion yet, especially not in this condition.

He took a shaky breath. “We have to get you home.” He took Sam's good hand from where it had fallen limply by his side and levered him back up onto the road, pulling the arm around his shoulders so that most of Sam's weight was leaning on him. They walked awkwardly toward the Row, managing to stay mostly on the road and not in the verge.

“Mister Frodo?”

“Yes Sam?” he managed breathlessly.

“You really are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Sam continued. “An I've seen a lot of lovely things, ya know.”

Frodo felt strangely as if he wanted to shout with frustration and laugh hysterically at the same time. “Thank you very kindly Sam,” he managed in a light tone. “By the way, happy birthday! Did they treat you up right at the Dragon? Did you really celebrate properly?”

“You are really beautiful, an...” Sam was fairly determined to carry on the single-minded conversation even if it was with himself.

Frodo shook his head, grinning. It was impossible. He could only hope that Sam would, once inside the smial with his sisters and the Gaffer, manage to control this impulse to talk out his feelings.

They were almost at the door of Number 3. Frodo was so busy concocting logical excuses for their delay in his head that he almost didn't hear the end of Sam's conversation with himself.

“...an I've seen more of you than most.”

The door to Number 3 opened just as Frodo turned and gaped at Sam.

“Where have you been boy?” the Gaffer roared in his ear.

 

 

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TBC  



	9. Chapter Eight - Wait

  
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Had it been only a scant few hours ago that he had been thoroughly kissed by Sam Gamgee in the shadows of a tree on Hill Road? And only this morning, just before dawn, that he had tasted that astonishing mouth for the first time? It felt to Frodo as if weeks had passed, months perhaps. And how could he have thought that he might actually be able to sleep? Frodo rolled over in his bed for the hundredth time and gazed at the faint silver-blue hint of moonlight on his bedroom wall.

In addition to the exquisite aching hunger he now endured, Frodo felt somehow painfully hollow. And his head spun with worries. What if Sam's hand got worse? Simple cuts, especially with garden tools, had been known to progress into something much more dire. When would he see Sam again? Had Aster really cleaned it well? She generally knew what she was doing when it came to things of that sort, but what if she was wrong this time? Did the Gaffer believe their story that Sam had gotten nauseous and they had simply stopped until he felt better? When would he see Sam again? Sam couldn't work tomorrow with his hand like that. What if Sam wasn't sleeping either? His hand was probably throbbing horribly. When would he see Sam again? And Sam would feel awful in the morning on top of that. Would it be too forward if he went down there with some of Bilbo's remedy? What if the hand got worse and Sam couldn't use it at all? What would Sam do if he couldn't work the soil? When would he see Sam again?

Frodo groaned and rolled out of the bed. It was useless. He had no idea what time it was at this point, but he might as well take a hike or do something productive as lie there and twist up the bedclothes for yet another night. Pulling his nightshirt off over his head, Frodo grabbed his discarded breeches and stepped into them, snagging his shirt from the laundry basket as he strode over to the open window.

As he finished buttoning his breeches, Frodo stood at his window gazing into the moonlit night and inhaled a long deep breath. Pulling himself up into his favourite perch on the windowsill, he felt his breathing gradually slow and steady as he sat there. The moist air whispered softly against his skin, barely moving. Even the night creatures that usually trilled and chirped beneath his window seemed to have hushed for a moment. He could almost hear, with the movement of air, a soft sound as if the night, too, was breathing quietly. Frodo felt the strange tension that had been building inside him slowly unravel and ebb away.

The landscape beyond his window was brushed with silver like some vast bright sea, with the mulch and fresh plantings in the Bag End gardens forming dark islands just beneath his window. Frodo could smell the heat of the day still lingering in the freshly turned soil and the gentle perfume of something blooming nearby. He leaned out to scan the meticulously tended beds around his window and spotted the source of the scent, a clutch of delicate white blooms. Frodo carefully swung out and gingerly placed his feet in the soil, then, watchful of the new plantings, made his way cautiously to the plant. Hunkering down in the mulch, he leaned into the pale flowers, sniffing cautiously, then inhaling deeply. It seemed something fragrant was always blossoming under his window.

Frodo stood up and slowly turned, taking in the bounteous splendour of the garden all around his window. He was struck yet again by how blind he had been all this time. How self-absorbed. Wrapping his arms around himself, Frodo sank to his knees in the deep rich mulch, groaning at his own heedless acceptance of all this lovingly nurtured glory. He had been agonizing over his own feelings, wary of showing anything at all in his demeanour or speech. His mind had been tediously occupied with dry reason and logic, wasting time, blissfully unaware. Frodo had been the one waiting. Not Sam.

Sam hadn't been waiting at all. Sam had been declaring his feelings with every season, with every scent and colour carefully selected, with every seed sown, with every delicate cutting sheltered, with every wilted bloom snipped back. True to his generous spirit but constrained by class, and age, and his own shy diffidence, Sam had instead poured his heart into the soil. Frodo gazed about in wonder. As clearly as if he had written it in black ink on ivory parchment, Sam had recorded his love in colour and scent on rich dark loam beneath Frodo's window. And he had splashed it in riotous profusion across the green-gold canvas of the hill.

Frodo dug his hands into the mulch and lifted it to his face, closing his eyes as he inhaled the lush verdant scent. It was as if he held a part of Sam's spirit in his fingers, warm and vital and alive. He could almost hear and feel Sam's gentle voice thrumming in the soil.

Frodo looked at the garden around him, silent and flourishing in the moonlight, pulsing quietly with life and song, and felt a sweet pain swell up from within him. He realized suddenly that whenever Sam was not within reach or hearing, he felt empty, somehow bereft. Just being here, in this place where Sam had sown so much of himself into the soil, somehow filled that emptiness, but not completely. He would never be complete again without Sam.

Frodo gazed back down at the rich loam in his hands.

“He is yours, my lady. As certain as you fall asleep to his lullaby in the winter, and quicken to his touch in the spring. He is yours,” he whispered. “But in all your abundance, I hope you will trust me with this one gift -- your Sam.”

Frodo reverently lowered the rich soil back to its resting place.

“I'll not betray that trust,” he breathed.

For long moments Frodo knelt there, hands pressed into the soil, heart strangely content and full, taking deep breaths of that scent that was so much a part of Sam.

Eventually, as always at this time of night, his hill and his sky called to him. Frodo felt the tug somewhere under his breastbone and heard the music of his stars, distant and serene. But somehow, with his fingers still buried in the warm mulch, his senses overwhelmed with the scents and sounds, his heart more full than he had thought possible, he felt strangely unwilling to leave this haven that Sam had lovingly created under his window.

Frodo looked up to see if he could glimpse the stars from here. The bulk of Bag End blocked most of the sky, the trees above hid the rest, but he could see a wide expanse of stars if he looked in the right direction. The moon, however, was somewhere just out of sight behind Bag End. He looked around for the best place to recline so that he could see it from the midst of all this abundance. And he thought of the other garden that Sam had carefully cultivated on the hill.

In that moment, Frodo realized the true gift that Sam had given him. He could lie in the midst of the magnificent wild-seeming spread on the hill, surrounded by everything that Sam had coaxed and sung and loved into being, surrounded by that essence of Sam, and watch the stars bloom in their own glorious profusion in the sky above Bag End. He could have Sam and the stars in his sky as well.

Frodo got to his feet and ran, up and around the smials, his feet certain on the familiar path, running upwards to the deep shadows of the great tree.

And he flew out into a vast field of stars that bloomed in the sky above and in the grass below. Out into glorious moonlight that painted his hill with silver. Frodo stopped there, beyond the tree, and for long moments he stood still, full of untrammelled joy, his hand stretched up and drifting across the moonlit sky, as he watched the stars shine and shimmer through his fingers. Then he lowered his hand and turned, completely entranced, his hand drifting out and over the multitude of blooms glimmering and dancing all around him. At last, his eyes were drawn back up to the beauty above him as he knelt, then sank sideways into the turf, throwing his hand out for balance and yelping with surprise as he sat on something hard and unyielding in the grass.

Frodo reached under his protesting backside and pulled out a cloth-covered package, gazing at it in puzzlement in the silvery light. Then his face cleared and he felt carefully through the cloth, hoping against hope that he hadn't broken whatever was carefully wrapped in that bundle. Frodo sighed with relief when it appeared that, whatever it was, it was still one, very hard, oddly-shaped piece.

Frodo remembered very clearly the moment yesterday morning when it had fallen from Sam's lax fingers into the grass. Remembered all too well the package sliding from Sam's hand, those fingers instead covering his as he cupped Sam's cheek, and the kiss that would forever burn on his palm.

Frodo clasped Sam's mathom to his chest and fell back into the cushioning grass remembering that moment, and Sam's mouth on his, and Sam's every hitching breath, and the stars in Sam's eyes. That was the true gift, he thought, sliding his fingers across the cloth covering the package and gazing at the sweep of stars above him. He needed no other.

Gradually, as he lay there suspended between earth and sky, Frodo began to sense once more the solemn march of music from the stars above him. But this time, a beloved, familiar melody rose from the stars blooming in the grass around him as well. It wove a counterpoint through and around that tune. He could almost hear Sam's beloved voice humming in harmony. It seemed the very air shivered with song. He closed his eyes and shivered along.

Frodo wondered, as Sam's deep tones grew louder and trembled through him, if it was possible to die of this. It sounded as if Sam was actually humming somewhere on the hill, coming toward him . . .

“You are beautiful you know.”

Somehow that voice, so loved and so familiar, did not startle him. Frodo opened his eyes slowly to find Sam gazing down at him and wondered if he had simply dreamed his song, and therefore Sam as well, into existence on the hill.

The luminous silver light sculpted the perfect features above him, chiselling that firm jaw and highlighting sleep-tousled hair into a glimmering crown. Frodo envied the moonlight, tracing a path down the strong column of that neck, caressing the sculpted muscles of that chest, gilding the sparse fur that arrowed down across that stomach . . . Sudden heat bloomed in Frodo's chest and he nearly moaned with desire when he realized his shy, sensible Sam had come up the hill from Bagshot Row with his breeches unlaced.

No. This was no dream. One tanned hand was swathed in white. And obviously it had proved an encumbrance. The shirt was also unbuttoned, gaping open, and while a brace rested on one shoulder, the other dangled.

Frodo looked up into Sam's eyes and he found he couldn't breath properly beneath that heated gaze. He levered up from the grass and felt the cloth-wrapped mathom slide down his chest to rest, somewhat uncomfortably, in his lap. Sam's eyes followed its path, lingered for a moment, then lifted to meet his.

“You forgot your mathom...my mathom. I forgot my mathom,” Frodo managed.

“I see that.” Sam's mouth quirked briefly.

“Your hand?”

Sam looked down at the white wrapped appendage as if it were a bit of a surprise. “Aches some,” his eyes slid back to Frodo's meaningfully, “but not as bad as other things.”

Frodo tried to speak, but only uttered a croak. Then he managed a strangled, “Sam...”

Sam lifted the sound hand. “Begging your pardon Mis...Frodo, I didn't get to finish what I was saying before. And I am a bit uneasy of being interrupted again . . . by someone else. Not by you, of course. If you get my meaning.”

Frodo frowned. “Saying?” The only thing left unfinished before was not, he thought, anything to do with words.

“You asked me... You said it was a surprise to you, me coming up here and all, like that. I...”

“Sam.” Frodo managed to push himself up to sit cross-legged in the grass. “I don't mean to interrupt, but at least sit down.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam sank down quickly.

Frodo noted that he was carefully just out of reach.

“No 'sirs', Sam.” Frodo peered at him. “Are you sure you are all right?”

“Had a thumping good ache in my head, but it's gone now,” Sam responded, “Daisy gave me something awful-tasting to drink. I was a trifle sick with that, on top of everything else I think I drank.”

Frodo sat silent and expectant. Sam blushed furiously and looked down at the bandaged hand in his lap.

“This goes back a ways, this,” Sam managed.

Frodo tried to school his face to show calm acceptance of whatever Sam felt was so terrifying and important.

“A while back, when you'd first come to Bag End, I heard me gaffer tell how Mister Bilbo -- he was down at the Ivy Bush -- Mister Bilbo let slip to some of them down there that he, well, he found you...”

Frodo noticed with apprehension that Sam's sound hand was tightly clenched in his lap, so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“You were floating all quiet and still, facedown and all, at the bottom of his big bath tub. He was laughing an' all about it. Said he thought you had gone and drowned in there, an' he tried to save you. Said he fell in himself and nearly drowned.”

Frodo frowned. Something about this nagged at the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite grasp what it was.

And still Sam hadn't looked up.

“Mister Bilbo had told 'em how you weren't afraid of water -- which I know for sure, seeing you swim like a pure fish an' all -- but back then, I didn't know that. I couldn't see how anyone could not be afraid of it. But...”

How many times had Frodo gone for a private dip in the stream, early in the morning, late in the evening, and risen dripping out of the water to find his young friend just standing or sitting on the shore, nervously watching?

“Well, me gaffer and the rest got to talking -- not meaning no disrespect -- but they were worrying with you doing that -- kind of holding yourself underwater like that till you nearly, well... I...I got a tad worried about it.”

Sam looked up at this, and Frodo smiled supportively, remembering the fear in the hazel eyes of a younger Sam -- watching him dive and swim. Remembering how he would walk right up to the water's edge, almost frantic, when Frodo didn't come up fast enough.

“I mean, being just... I mean, I was young and all you know. I kinda decided that if Mister Bilbo wasn't worried over it then he likely wasn't watching too close when you were around water, an' I...”

How many times had Frodo told Sam that he really didn't want him getting in trouble for taking time away from chores just to make sure he didn't drown? And how many times had Sam ignored him and just kept suddenly showing up?

“Well I, not that I could do any good or anything, but I wanted to make sure you could come up when you decided to, whatever it was you were doing when you stayed down there like that.” Sam blushed furiously, and gazed back down at his hands. “And I... Well, I could always tell when you...when you were bathing by the steam coming up outta the vent we built and the smoke. And... And...”

Frodo was suddenly lost. “When I was _bathing_?”

But Sam did not raise his head. He just kept talking, his voiced strained and shaking. “And, those times Mister Bilbo weren't around to watch over you, and I could manage, I would just make sure you... Well, I just kind of watched to make sure you came out safe an' all.”

“Watched?” Frodo said hoarsely, suddenly realizing where this conversation was really going. He stared first at Sam's bent head, then at the ground, feeling his face go hot.

“No! Not that way! Not the way you think!”

Frodo closed his eyes, running his fingers shakily through his hair, trying to gather his scattered wits. All the times that he had taken a bath, had Sam _watched_?

“I mean, I would stay out in the cellar and listen, just to make sure you were all right an' all. Wait until I heard you get out, then leave.”

Frodo let out a hiss of relief at that and opened his eyes.

“Least ways, not till day afore yesterday.”

Frodo's eyes snapped up, locked on that hesitant hazel gaze, then widened.

 

 

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TBC  



	10. Chapter Nine - Stars

  
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Frodo lost all sense of time. He was back in the bathing room, hearing that noise in the cellar and staring at the open cellar door. He suddenly knew what Sam had seen, and, more important, what he had likely heard. He tried desperately to remember. Had he? Yes, he must've. He knew he had said Sam's name aloud at a very critical moment.

Frodo knew he was blushing furiously. He tried hard to control his reaction, but he knew his thoughts were clear on his face when Sam, who was watching him closely, suddenly went pale and looked as if he might become violently ill despite Daisy's dosing him with all manner of remedies.

“I didn't mean ta. I really didn't.” Sam began. “I mean, Mister Bilbo'd just gotten through telling us about you being off your feed an' upset an' all an' I decided somebody oughta be watching over ya since he weren't. So I came up here, and I saw the steam and I knew you were in the bath.”

Sam looked as if he was going to get up and run, and he was breathing as if he already had. “I heard you groan and swear in that dwarf language and then a big splash of water and...and...and I just pushed the door open a bit to make sure, and I... Well, I couldn't help myself Mister Frodo. I...I couldn't move. I couldn't even breathe, seeing you like that.”

Frodo buried his face in his hands, realizing now what Sam had meant went he had said 'I've seen more of you than most'. He didn't know quite how to react to this revelation. Then he heard Sam move, attempting to rise. Frodo rose to his knees quickly and reached out to grab Sam's sound arm. He watched as the mathom slid, once again, ignominiously into the grass.

“Please don't leave, Sam. I...I just,” Frodo managed, staring at the mathom next to his knees, unable to meet Sam's gaze. “I don't know what to say.”

“Mister Frodo, I'm dreadful sorry. I'm...”

Frodo realized the shaking voice had stopped in mid-sentence. When Sam pulled his arm away, Frodo looked up to find Sam kneeling on his haunches in the grass, a look of steely resolve on his face.

“No.” It was said with a determined tone that Frodo had heard before. He had heard it those few times when Sam did decide to go against his gaffer or to defy Daisy or to tell the Master of Bag End that he was mistreating his Eniara plants. “I'm not really sorry, Mister Frodo. I'm not sorry at all. You are the most beautiful thing that's ever been in my life, and...and seeing you like that just proved it to me. And if you can't forgive me for that, and if you leave like Mister Bilbo said you might, well, at least I have that to remember. That and...” The gold eyes slid away from his, suddenly shy once more. “And the kissing. And, well, just the idea that you might...” the voice was just a hoarse whisper now. “I mean, that you might feel about me, like I feel about you.”

Frodo moved quickly, without a second thought, kneeling before Sam and leaning forward to lift the downcast face.

“If you hadn't seen -- and heard -- what you did, Sam, would you have come up the hill? Would you have told me what you told me yesterday?”

Sam tried to look away, but Frodo held his face gently. “No,” came Sam's whispered response.

“Then I am glad beyond all reason that you did see it,” Frodo said firmly. “Because I...I love you, Samwise Gamgee. And if you hadn't said anything, I think I would have gone on for ages waiting and wondering and worrying, and never said a word.”

The gold eyes widened and lips parted in disbelief. “You _love_ me?”

Frodo's throat suddenly tightened painfully and tears stung his eyes as he watched that beloved face react to this pronouncement. He knew his own features must reflect the joy and disbelief and wonder that he saw on Sam's.

“I was so afraid, “ Sam whispered.

“Afraid? I think not. I think you were the brave one, Samwise.”

“No, else I would have kissed you long afore now,” Sam retorted fiercely.

Frodo purposefully let go of Sam's face, letting his hands drop to his thighs and willing himself not to move as Sam delivered his promised kiss, but nearly lost his resolve when he saw Sam's eyes go dark and focus on his mouth. His entire form began to tremble when Sam leaned toward him slowly and slid his fingers, almost reverently, through his hair until they rested at the nape. He knew the stars were in his eyes then, because he saw them reflected in Sam's, then Sam's mouth was on his and he forgot what stars were because suddenly he was drinking undiluted sunshine.

Sam slid his tongue across Frodo's top lip, demanding entrance. Impatient when it wasn't immediately granted, he nipped at the bottom one. Frodo gasped with surprise and Sam took advantage, delving into Frodo's mouth fiercely and holding Frodo's head tightly with his one good hand.

They were on their knees now, only a breath apart as Frodo, unable to remain still any longer, slid his hands under Sam's shirt and skated his fingers across quivering muscles, pulling Sam's body closer. Sam broke the kiss with a gasp, throwing back his head in response to the questing fingers, and Frodo quickly leaned down to nuzzle and lick at shadowy recess just under Sam's ear, then moved on to taste the salty skin all the way down the tanned throat until he was sipping from the hollow at the base.

Sam's head arched further, then he groaned and lost his balance, canting slowly back into the soft grass as Frodo went with him, making certain the injured hand was out of harm's way, sliding and scrambling, and finally coming to rest sitting firmly at the top of Sam's thighs.

Sam lifted his head from the grass, his eyes widening with awareness of exactly what Frodo was sitting on. But brief embarrassment flared into pure heat as Frodo pushed Sam's shirt completely aside and reached out to run his fingers ever so slowly down the heaving moist ribs, then brush them back up and around the responsive dark circles of flesh there. When Sam moved restlessly beneath him, his head angling back into the grass once more, Frodo leaned back to drink in the look on Sam's face, his hands splayed on the rapid rise and fall of chest.

Sam's uninjured hand was flung out beside him, his eyes shuttered, his mouth slightly open, and his tanned skin gleaming moist in the moonlight. His injured hand rested above his head in the grass. Some final barrier melted inside Frodo, as he looked down at that beloved gentle face, open and vulnerable below him.

And he felt suddenly like some plundering bee hovering over a rare flower on his hill, drinking in nectar that was beyond description. He shifted ever so slightly, and unbearable desire stabbed through him as he saw Sam bite his lip and heard him whimper. Then those eyes opened and gazed up at him with a look of pure hunger. One strong hand reached swiftly up, ferociously pulling him down into an excruciating kiss, pulling him down into a cauldron of molten gold. Flower indeed.

In the midst of drowning in that dark sweetness, Frodo felt Sam slide the cloth-wrapped hand down his back, cupping his hip and pulling him closer, desperate for more friction and contact. As Sam squirmed beneath him, Frodo was suddenly all too aware of the layers of cloth between them.

“Oh, Sam,” he grated out as he pulled up and away to kneel in the grass, nearly bringing Sam upright.

Frodo tugged impatiently at his own shirt, tossing it aside, and had begun unbuttoning his trousers when he looked over at Sam, who was holding himself propped on one wobbly arm, gazing at him as if he had lost his mind.

“Why did we... Why did you stop?” Sam managed.

“I didn't stop. This would just be much better with fewer clothes between us.” Frodo's hands stilled at his waistband, his breeches unbuttoned, but still securely on his hips. “And you like me with less clothes, don't you Sam?” he offered with a slow, smouldering smile.

“Better?” It was nearly a groan from Sam as his eyes widened.

“Better. Slower. Longer. We've both waited too...” Frodo peered at Sam, realization dawning. “You haven't...” he began, then took a shaky breath.

“What?” Sam was breathless, and rather indignant. “Haven't what? What do you need to know? I mean, right this minute?”

Frodo bent his head and found himself unaccountably torn between laughter and tears, then viciously controlled the impulse and looked up, his face impassive.

“Have you ever done this before, Sam? With anyone else, I mean?”

Sam seemed unruffled by the question, “No, just...” he stopped though, realizing where that was going.

“Just yourself.”

Sam flushed a bright red, then suddenly lifted his chin, “And you?” Then, as if he realized how far beyond his own sense of propriety he had just stepped, Sam looked down.

Frodo reached over and cupped that chin, forcing those eyes to meet his. He searched that face, fearful of the response his next answer might bring. “I have done this with a few, but never with anyone I have _loved_.”  
  
There it was. Frodo's heart stopped beating for a moment as the bright brow lowered and the lovely mouth flattened, considering this.

“So. You have something against doing this with one you love then?”

That stopped Frodo for a moment, then he caught the slight quirk of lip and the betraying glint in those gold eyes. He stifled a smile. Two could play at this game. He dropped his hand and paused, as if thoughtfully considering the question.

“Well, I really think that, if you truly love someone, you should take your time about these things,” Frodo began. “ You know, have long talks and go on long walks, and discover special hidden places where you can take your time to get to know them even better mmrrphh...”

Two very warm lips were pressed firmly into Frodo's and one strong hand held him securely by the nape as Sam's mouth thoroughly ravaged his. After long moments, during which Frodo's hands fell limply at his sides and he lost the feeling in his legs, the fingers gripping his head gently released. Sam leaned back before him, both of them pulling in rapid breaths of air, the sound harsh in the still moonlit night.

“Mister Frodo. I mean, Frodo, meaning no disrespect, but I believe that I...I know you quite well already.” Sam managed breathlessly. “Although there are parts of you that I would like to get to know better, if you get my meaning.” Sam looked around at the silver-white shimmer from the setting moon on the tall grass and flowers surrounding them, and then up at the stars flung across the heavens above them. “And I can't think of any more special hidden place than here,” he whispered, looking back at Frodo as if he were some creature of the stars himself, sprung up from the grass.

Frodo leaned forward, tracing one finger down Sam's silver-shadowed cheekbone. “My Sam,” he whispered, “Please know that since this is your first time, it will go by quickly -- far too quickly -- no matter what I do. But then, we _will_ take our time to get to know all those parts.” He smiled. “I promise. All the time we need.”

Frodo stood up slowly. Then, with his eyes locked on Sam's, he gradually pulled his breeches down over his hips and knees, letting them pool around his feet, and stepping out of them. It was the most exhilarating feeling he had ever had in his life, watching that bemused expression disappear from Sam's face to be replaced with something that looked like a cross between exquisite pain and amazed delight.

After a long moment during which neither of them seemed to breathe, Sam shrugged out of the brace already dangling off one shoulder and fumbled with his shirt with one hand, only managing to get one arm free, the shirt tangling on the makeshift bandage.

Frodo leaned over to help, but was surprised when Sam freed the shirt, which slid to the ground, and suddenly surged to his feet. Sam nearly knocked Frodo down, but instead managed to lift him completely off the ground, sliding his arms around him.

“Oh, Frodo,” Sam breathed huskily.

Frodo managed to loop his arms around Sam's neck before his feet did briefly leave the ground.

“Sam!” he protested, “Your hand!”

And as Frodo slid back down, his own rigid flesh skimmed over Sam's lightly furred skin and he threw his head back and gasped. Sam buried his face in Frodo's chest, his lips and tongue working in the hollow of Frodo's throat, then up into the shadowy recess of Frodo's neck beneath his ear. Frodo was held on his toes for a moment only by the undeniable strength of Sam's arms, dangling there shivering with need.

But Frodo managed to slip out of Sam's grasp, pressing searing kisses down Sam's throat then quickly sliding his mouth further down, across Sam's chest to his stomach, his lips following the wisps of gold arrowing down into the waistband of Sam's breeches as his hands skimmed slowly down Sam's bare sides. Sam groaned and slid his fingers into Frodo's hair as he nuzzled enticingly at Sam's navel and moved his fingers to rest on Sam's hips. Then Frodo slid his fingers slowly to the front of Sam's breeches to loosen the already untied laces, all too aware of the rigid flesh bulging at the cloth beneath those laces.

After a few frustrating moments of fumbling with the ties, Frodo pulled his mouth away and went down on one knee. Sam's fingers clenched tightly at Frodo's head, not pulling him closer or pushing him away, just holding him there as Frodo struggled impatiently with the tangled laces. Then suddenly Sam made a strangled noise and Frodo felt the fingers in his hair trembling as the muscles beneath his fingers quivered. Frodo glanced up to see Sam's head thrown back, his mouth open, and realized that Sam was nearly coming undone just from his fingers fumbling with the ties. Knowing he could not loosen the laces in time, Frodo reached out and firmly slid his fingers along the rigid flesh, still trapped in stubborn cloth and ties, and slipped one hand behind Sam's thighs, his hair tugging against Sam's grip painfully.

“Oh, Frodo! I can't!” Sam's hand suddenly pulled Frodo forward into the jumble of ties and cloth.

“Oh, Sam,” he breathed softly.

Just the moist, hot touch of his breath through thin cloth was enough.

“Oh...oh... _Frodo_!”

Frodo felt Sam throb to completion beneath his mouth, his entire body shaking as he pressed Frodo even closer. Frodo groaned and slid both arms around Sam's thighs, his cheek pressed to quaking flesh, holding Sam's knees firmly against him to keep the sturdy body upright as it shuddered with the aftershocks.

“Oh, I...” Sam managed hoarsely, after a long moment. “I didn't mean _that_ to happen.”

Frodo nearly laughed at the apologetic tone. It was so like Sam.

The hands gripping Frodo's head relaxed, but Frodo still held on, knowing that if he let go, Sam would topple without support.

“I'm sorry, Mister Frodo. That...that wasn't much good for you, I think.”

Frodo looked up. Sam's face was glistening and flushed, his lips parted and swollen. Frodo's breath caught at the sight of him and he felt himself tighten painfully in response. He leaned his forehead into Sam's muscled hip and swallowed, smiling against the cloth. “It was _quite_ good for me, Sam, and will get even better in just a little while.”

“I think I need to sit d...down, Mister Frodo.”  
  
“I'll get these out of the way first, Sam.” Frodo risked bringing his hands back to grapple with the reluctant laces, still making sure Sam's knees were pressed against him. Sam, still shaky, held tightly to Frodo's head as the ties finally gave way and Frodo tugged at the reluctant cloth. He pulled the breeches off Sam's hips, and let them slide down to bunch at his feet.

“Let me go get my old blanket and you can sit on that,” Frodo said gently, and Sam's fingers finally released his hair. He slipped back, moving into the shadow of the tree behind them on his hands and knees, quickly groping in the grass. As Frodo had hoped, his old abused blanket still lay hidden there, crumpled and forgotten. Frodo brought it back and shook it open on the grass close to Sam. He turned, and couldn't find his voice.

Sam still stood shakily amidst the blooming grass dressed only in moonlight and starlight, his face and body brushed with silver, staring dazedly up at the sky. He looked like some ancient rune carved into ageless stone that was visible only on certain days in certain light.

Frodo had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life and likely never would again. Perhaps like those old runes, Sam would disappear after this night. Perhaps like others he had loved, someday Sam too would be gone. But for now, under this sky and these stars on this night, Sam was his and he wasn't going anywhere.

He held out his hand, “Sam?”

Sam turned as if he was in a trance. He sank onto the blanket with a sigh of relief. Frodo pushed him slowly back until he lay unresisting on the blanket, his wounded hand above his head once more.

“Sam, are you all right?” he whispered, sliding next to Sam and leaning over him.

The gold eyes turned to meet his. “I'm afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Afraid I'll wake up.”

Frodo smiled and leaned further over, his hands on either side of Sam's head. “Well, I think you'll want to wake up for the slower, longer part,” he whispered and kissed Sam, teasing his lips open with his tongue, then diving deep into well-remembered sweetness.

At this Sam did wake up, his tongue coming to life and tentatively touching Frodo's, his good hand coming up in a now familiar gesture to tangle in Frodo's hair as he pulled him closer and explored his mouth in turn. Frodo's hand skated across the still quivering chest muscles, lingering longer now over still-sensitive flesh, then down, barely touching, feeling the skin shiver beneath his fingers as he dipped to trace a lazy circle around Sam's navel.

Sam gasped as Frodo's mouth moved away from his and dipped lower, tasting his throat once more, nipping little kisses down the side, then further down, almost to Sam's shoulder before he stopped, suddenly biting and sucking in an unbearable sensation that had Sam whimpering and lifting his hips off the blanket in entreaty, his still-needy flesh beginning to quicken once more.

“Don't...don't...” Sam's voice was breathless once more and Frodo pulled back to gaze at him.

“Don't stop,” Sam whispered. The intense, desperate look on Sam's face nearly undid Frodo.

“Ssshhhhh Sam,” his mouth was back over Sam's, kissing him to silence, then slipping away before Sam could capture him to bury his face in the sparse gold fur on Sam's chest and lick softly at sensitive nubs of flesh.

Sam's hand found Frodo's head once more and held it there firmly. Frodo smiled against his chest then reached around to capture that hand and bring it to his lips. He kissed the palm, slowly and meaningfully, then licked one finger and pulled it softly into his mouth.

Sam's head lifted off the blanket and his eyes met Frodo's with something between a groan and a whimper. Then his head fell back and his neck arched as Frodo's hand slipped lower, across the hard line of hip to skim and encircle the silken hardness waiting there for his fingers.

“Oh, Frodo!” Sam gasped.

Sam was shivering and making incoherent sounds as Frodo carefully explored, sliding his fingers first along the top of the rigid flesh, then along the bottom, then encircling and stroking, then rubbing his thumb along a sensitive fold, then gliding lower to gently finger delicate tissue, then back to start again. Frodo was watching closely as he nibbled and nipped at Sam's neck, drawing it out for as long as Sam would bear it. And Sam began to move his hips unconsciously asking for faster, more friction, more.

Then suddenly Sam pulled Frodo closer, effectively stilling the slender fingers that were tormenting him, skimming his own broad hand over the moist slick skin of Frodo's shoulder blade, sliding down his back, stopping as if to count every rib, sliding down to the small of his back then lower to tug him even closer, to cup and caress, as if relishing the feeling of that skin. And as Sam's skilful fingers slid between them, it was Frodo's turn to moan as Sam encircled and stroked.

“Oh, Sam! Yes! There!”

He buried his face into Sam's neck as those clever fingers cupped and held slick flesh and moved in a maddening rhythm until Frodo felt frissons of white heat begin to swirl through him. He gasped and shifted away.

But Sam firmly reached out and levered Frodo over to lie sprawled on top of him, holding him there with one broad hand. Sam buried his face in Frodo's hair, whispering into the dark curls. Frodo managed to move ever so slightly and groaned to find his own hard need in unbearable friction with Sam's, both trapped now between sweat-slicked skin. And Sam, somehow moving instinctively now, had thrown one leg over Frodo's, holding him firmly in place.

Frodo had barely managed to lift his head when Sam moaned and pulled him into a dizzying kiss. Then Sam's lips were hot on his temple, then a moist breath was in his ear, and that voice was hoarsely whispering his name, just his name, over and over, like some strange sweet music. And then Sam's hand slipped lower on his back and began rubbing a calloused thumb over one spot that made Frodo hum breathlessly, again and again, until Frodo turned back and captured Sam's mouth -- and Sam began to move.

Then it was all exquisite friction and heat and slick skin against silken hardness, and Sam's body shifting frantically beneath his and his shuddering in response. He couldn't tell any longer where one of them ended and the other began. White-hot stars were swirling under his heart.

“Oh, Frodo. Oh, I...I can't!” Frodo swallowed Sam's inarticulate protest in his mouth and felt the movement change and shift, so close.

Then suddenly Frodo was on his back and Sam was suspended above him, holding himself up on both hands, gazing down at him. Frodo saw that the moon had set and the stars were a field of gold blooms in a vast landscape of midnight behind Sam's head. And Sam's eyes looked like two more stars above him. Until he realized they were brimming with tears.

He reached up, “Sam? Sam, what?”

“I can't. It's too much. The sky above you. I need you on the earth. I need to keep you on the earth,” Sam whispered. Then he wove Frodo's hands into his and held them gently in the grass on either side of Frodo's head, and began to move, lowering his head to capture Frodo's mouth and then slide down to his neck.

And Frodo arched his neck to that mouth, “Oh, Sam. My Sam.” He felt the stars begin to spiral faster within him as Sam licked and kissed his neck, at times muttering Frodo's name into the skin, teeth bared against the slick hot flesh.

Then Sam lifted his head and began to move in a familiar cadence, suspended above the earth, hands clenched in Frodo's and in the soil. Frodo shuddered, his hands quivering under Sam's tightening fingers as Sam whimpered and the slow movement slid into something faster and harder and more demanding. The expression on Sam's face was intense, his skin sheened with moisture, and Frodo struggled to watch, struggled as the frissons of heat and sensation threatened to overwhelm him, struggled to stay with Sam. So close, so close, so...

“Oh...oh...yes! Frodo...Frodo! Oh _Frodo_!”

Frodo felt Sam's body tremor with release and watched as Sam threw back his head with a strangled cry of completion. Then that face was gazing down at his with an expression of fierce possession. A million stars flared through him. And Frodo's own keening wail was suddenly swallowed into Sam's mouth as he fell, with those million stars, into the sky.

 

 

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TBC  



	11. Epilogue - Gillim

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Frodo was cold.

At least, part of him was cold. His back and his shoulders, and the back of his thighs, and even his rear end, seemed to be very bare and very cold. His face and chest and arms were tucked firmly into something warm. Something that smelled, and since his mouth was pressed against bare skin, he licked -- yes, tasted -- like Sam.

He cautiously opened one eye, hoping against hope that the entire population of Hobbiton was not standing around them on the Hill in broad daylight.

Frodo took a deep, relieved breath. They were still alone on the Hill, and Sam was wrapped firmly around him, his sturdy body unaccountably warm on this chill night. Actually giving off heat like a furnace. For a moment, Frodo basked in that glow. Then he attempted to raise his head and found Sam's fingers, woven very tightly in his hair. Frodo smiled painfully. Apparently this steadfast grip on his hair was going to be a habit with Sam. He wondered briefly if his scalp would survive and felt a warm thrill at the prospect of finding out.

It was still dark, but he could see, just over Sam's shoulder, hints of grey light in a sky that was suddenly bereft of stars. And a chill wind was sweeping across the hill. A storm. A storm was blowing in. He shivered and a cloth-bound hand pulled him closer. He felt a weight move on his leg, which, he realized, was being held firmly between Sam's.

He grinned broadly. It was such a powerful feeling. It was as if some part of him that had always been empty was suddenly full to overflowing. He couldn't remember feeling this content and comfortable in a long time. Despite lying naked on cold ground swept by a damp wind, resting in Sam's arms felt strangely like coming home. Frodo was tempted to just lie there, entangled in that warmth, held securely to that broad chest. But he could smell the hint of rain in the air and he, for one, did not want this night to end with a cold shower.

“Sam,” he whispered. There was no response. “Samwise.”

“Mmmrph?”

“Sam,” he said loudly.

“M...coming...da.”

“SAM!”

“Mis...Mister...Fro...” The gold head raised blearily and the gold eyes widened.

The head lowered again to the grass with a tremulous sigh. “Oh glory.”

Frodo managed to swallow a laugh. “Well, Samwise Gamgee, master gardener, you may think rain is glorious on a spring morning, but I, for one, would rather not be caught out in it.”

“Rain?” Sam pushed himself up, then yelped, realizing he had used his injured hand.

Frodo sat up quickly and yelped as well, promptly jerked back by fingers still laced in his hair.

“Oh! Sorry, sir. I mean, sorry,” Sam stuttered, blushing furiously.

Frodo rubbed his head gingerly. “Nothing too damaged, I don't think.” He turned quickly, taking the wrapped hand carefully in his. “But I am worried... Oh, Sam!” Even in the dark, he could see that the wrapping was grass stained and dirty. It was much the worse for wear, but it didn't look like there was a lot of blood seeping through.

“I heal really quick. Just twinges a bit,” Sam protested.

“We need to get you cleaned up and take a look at it,” Frodo said quickly. “We can check it and rewrap it in something clean.”

Sam peered at him in the dark, then reached out and pulled a strand of grass out of his hair, then another. “You need a bit of cleaning up yourself.”

“Mmmmm.” Chill bumps rose on Frodo's skin. He shuddered, unsure if it was the breeze, or Sam's fingers brushing at his nape. “We need to get in out of this wind.”

Frodo scanned the grass around them, looking for the light shadowy patches within the deeper shadows that might indicate discarded clothing. He managed to stagger to his feet and fish out a shirt, throwing it at Sam as he moved on to find his own breeches beneath a clutch of gorgeous blooms. Frodo stepped into the wrinkled garment, a bit clumsily, as he continued to search, finding his own shirt crumpled under the blanket and Sam's breeches pooled where he had stepped out of them. Then he stumbled over an odd shaped bundle and bent to scoop it up as well.

Sam had just barely struggled into his shirt, with some difficulty, when Frodo handed him his breeches.

“It's starting to rain, Sam.” Frodo shrugged into his own shirt, managing to hang on to the much-mistreated mathom as he did. “You don't need a chill on top of everything else.”

Sam was clearly struggling with the injured hand, just barely managing to get the breeches up. Frodo handed him the mathom and reached quickly behind him to tug gently at reluctant cloth, then knelt in front of him to efficiently tie the laces. He realized, a bit too late, what he had done when he felt a hand plough into his hair to hold him there.

What had immediately risen to Frodo's touch under that cloth proved that even cold rain would have no effect at this point. He vowed to do something very soon about the way this particular position affected Sam. If possible, before breakfast. Frodo smiled to himself at the thought, and let his fingers slip and touch, accidentally of course, just to see Sam's eyes flare and his mouth open with a soundless gasp as Frodo rose to his feet within Sam's arms.

“Good morning, _my_ Sam,” he whispered. He swiftly caressed with his thumb the darkening mark that he had left on Sam's neck just beneath the collar of the rumpled shirt, then pushed a strand of flaxen hair slowly behind one sensitive eartip, slid his finger across a still swollen lower lip, and finally grasped the trembling chin to pull those lips to his.

A cloth-covered hand slid under Frodo's shirt to fumble at one side of his waist.

“Ow!” Frodo yelped when something hard and rough bumped into his other side. He stepped back, rubbing his ribs.

Sam managed to look apologetic and aroused at the same time. He held out the mathom wordlessly.

“Yes. I _must_ open this if only to save my poor body from further abuse!” Frodo laughed.

He watched Sam's face intently as he pulled at the twine and unwrapped the cloth without looking. And Sam was watching with dark eyes as Frodo's fingers skimmed across a rough and spiny surface. Frodo finally looked down, intrigued. The cloth spun away from Frodo's fingers and he turned the object over and over in his hands.

Even in the dim light, he could see it was shaped like a star, fashioned not of light and heat, but of something more of the earth -- brown and prickly and oddly hollow. Frodo gazed at it in delight.

“Wherever did you get this, Sam? What is it?”

“A peddler. Not Old Snivey, another one,” Sam responded. “Never seen him around here before. He called it a 'gillim'. Least ways, I think that's what he said.”

“Gillim.” Frodo looked up, feeling that familiar stirring beneath his breastbone as he gazed at Sam's face. “ ‘Star fish’ in Sindarin.”

“I knew you would know that.” Sam smiled tentatively. “That old peddler had a few tales -- one of 'em was how the elves'd told him of the stars falling into the sea sometimes, burning as they went, and how this was the afters.”

Frodo's gaze shifted up at the empty sky then back down to the mathom then finally up at Sam's face. If the stars all fell from the sky, Frodo knew, at that moment, neither of them would notice.

“I thought you'd like it because I know you love the stars, and the sea, and it just seemed right you should have...”

Frodo swallowed the rest of whatever Sam had been going to say in a kiss that chased away the spring rain and put all the stars back in their rightful place.

 

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FINIS


End file.
